


Senior Undersecretary

by narcissablaxk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A little bit of Ron bashing, Both of his parents are still caught up in their Death Eater nonsense, F/M, Hermione and Draco are both Ministry officials, Redeemed!Narcissa, but not for very long he will redeem himself as well, post—hogwarts, redeemed!Draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-04 12:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10990731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk
Summary: Ten years since the Golden Trio and their classmates moved on from Hogwarts and into the work force. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley have ended their relationship for unknown reasons, and suddenly, Hermione is sitting in Draco Malfoy's office, offering him a promotion that he never applied for. Is it because he's qualified? Or because the Death Eaters are still working towards some sort of new wave blood supremacy?





	1. Muggle Cigarettes

The morning dawned under the watchful eye of Hermione Granger, dew settling from the fog onto the grass below her booted feet. It brought with it a cold that had a sound, a distant ringing of a bell that became louder every time a gust of wind fluttered her open jacket. She hadn’t slept. Exhaustion lingered at the edges of her eyes, a set of shadows that she could not quite escape, but she would not succumb. 

Ron’s heavy footfalls intruded on her quiet observation of the morning, and he nudged the door open with the toe of his shoe, his hands occupied with a box of his belongings. “I think this is the last of it,” he said. She didn’t answer him, but kept her eyes on the rising sun, the curve of it just peeking over the horizon. He waited for a few moments, hoping she’d say something, anything, before he gave up and trudged down the sidewalk to a small pile of boxes that he had collected in the past few hours. Some of the boxes were without tops, and Hermione could see a collection of memories peeking out at them: framed photographs, the children’s broom that Ron had bought her as a lark, the little clock that used to hang in their kitchen. 

He tapped the edge of one box with his wand and Hermione watched as it all shrunk down small enough to fit inside his pocket. He turned back to her, his red hair illuminated by the rising sun, and waited, again, for her to say something. 

Perhaps that was the problem, she reflected distantly. He was always waiting for her to say something, to do something, to fix them, instead of trying to do it himself. Invariably, it was because he thought the flaw was her own, and thus her burden to rectify. 

“Are you going to say something?” he asked, and suddenly, he was standing next to her, the laces of his trainers worn and dirty. Hermione studied them as she struggled with what to say. “Hermione –”

“I’m sorry that it came to this,” she said finally, but she didn’t stand, she didn’t directly address him. “I really am sorry.” 

That seemed to appease him slightly; he crouched down so that they were the same height, though he was unwilling to actually sit down on the little concrete wall of the garden. “Me too,” he replied, and she huffed a quiet laugh, a single sound that he noticed but chose not to comment on. She wondered, cruelly, if he would have apologized at all if she hadn’t said the words first. 

She was sorry, she thought with disgust. Sorry that her childhood love was leaving, sure, but that encompassed all of the sorry she had left to give. She could not be sorry for what had not been her fault; she could not be sorry for what she had not done. 

“Perhaps one day –”

“Just go, Ronald,” she interrupted, her voice a sharp spike in the peaceful sunrise. “There’s nothing else to say.” 

He didn’t fight her on it, as he usually did; there was no yelling, no tears. It was all eerily silent; that was the part that seemed the most surreal, she thought. He had given up so completely that he couldn’t bother to fight; he had just been waiting for her to give the word, to tell him to leave. 

And when she finally did, the world went silent. 

She wondered if it would ever have sound again. 

***

Two Months Later

Draco Malfoy loved the winter; part of his adoration for the season came from the narcissism of wearing long coats and scarves that he always thought looked particularly dashing on him, but he loved the pristine quiet that came with freshly fallen snow. When he was in Hogwarts, he would sit near the lake, a pot of tea kept hot beside him and good book, and let the day fade away. Unfortunately, as an adult, he was rarely allowed that luxury. Every morning, he had a meeting, or a briefing, or some sort of errand to run that would put the beautiful landscape in the back of his mind where it would stay until the snow had been trampled on and the quiet had been broken. 

Today was not any different. 

He allowed himself a moment of pure, childlike delight in the middle of the sidewalk, where he looked up into the gray sky and watched the flakes flutter down around him and just existed in silence. Unfortunately, it was only a literal moment before he remembered that he had a meeting in less than an hour for which he was not particularly prepared. 

The Ministry of Magic was not terribly far away from where he lived, but the walk was enough to chill him to the bone in a delightful way that he secretly enjoyed. He lingered outside in the cold to light a cigarette and took a long drag of it, watching the smoke mingle with his breath. 

“Muggle cigarettes?” a familiar voice taunted. “I’m surprised.” 

He didn’t bother to turn around; he didn’t need to identify her. “Granger,” he greeted in his usual drawl. “Don’t you know that wizards don’t have cigarettes?” 

“Of course I know,” was her prompt answer, and he could just barely see her out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t turn his head to look at her; he didn’t want to encourage any sort of elongated conversation. 

“And yet here you are, professing surprise to see one in the hands of a wizard,” he replied, putting the cigarette to his lips and inhaling. 

She wiggled in place, obviously combating the cold. “I’m surprised to see one in the hands of you,” she emphasized. He knew that, of course, he was just being pedantic. 

He smirked, flicking the ash in her direction. “My coat is also made by a Muggle designer,” he pointed out blandly. “And so are my shoes.” 

“I thought you couldn’t have anything Muggle touch your person,” Hermione replied. 

Draco shrugged. “Good taste knows nothing of blood, Granger,” he intoned as if imparting a piece of great wisdom on her. “Now, did you want something, or did you want one?” 

He held out the pack of cigarettes toward her, and was completely unsurprised when she didn’t take one. He slid the pack back into his pocket. “They’re French,” he offered. 

“That’s – that’s nice,” she didn’t sound like she was really listening, and for the first time, Draco turned and took in her full appearance. She was dressed appropriately for the weather, in a dark orange peacoat that went all the way to her knees and an olive green scarf that she had pulled up over her nose. Her hair was hidden under a hat of the same color. Next to Draco’s all black, she looked like a beacon of autumn. He resisted the urge to remind her that it was February. Her gaze was trained back toward the doors of the Ministry, where Draco could just see several figures that he couldn’t quite make out.

“Granger,” he said sharply, and she turned back to him immediately, momentarily taken aback by his full attention. “I usually require my conversational partners to provide me with at least a little of their focus.” 

She had nothing to say to that, so Draco took that moment to flick his cigarette butt into the snow and duck into the building, checking his watch long enough to know that he only had fifteen minutes left until his meeting. He could hear her scramble to follow, her shoes momentarily losing traction on the sleek pavement. 

“Malfoy, wait –”

Draco’s eyes landed for a fraction of a second on Ron Weasley, standing by the lift next to a pretty brunette that he vaguely remembered from Gryffindor house. He turned back to Granger and caught her gaze sailing in the same direction before her eyes came back to his. 

“Granger, I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, so I really need –” 

Her eyes flickered back to Ron and the girl, and back to him, and Draco saw, with sudden clarity, why she had chosen to talk to him outside in the cold despite her obvious discomfort, why she was unwilling to finish their conversation, and why she had yet to insult him, as was her conversational tradition. 

“I’m – um – I’m actually going up to the same floor,” she stammered her way through a sentence she obviously didn’t think she would have the chance to complete. 

He narrowed his eyes, the snow in his hair starting to melt and deteriorating his good mood. “That’s great, Granger, did you want some sort of…reward?” 

Behind her, the lift had opened and Ron had filed in, crammed close to that same brunette girl, and as the door closed, Hermione physically relaxed. Draco took in her change in demeanor with raised eyebrows. 

“Now that the obvious weasel in the room is gone,” he said in the same conspiratorial tone as someone telling a secret, “perhaps you’d like to leave me to get to my meeting.” 

She looked positively mortified at the insinuation that he had figured her out, and even as Draco made it to the stairs that he always took instead of the lift, he turned back to her. She was still standing in the same spot, looking despondent. He wasn’t sure why the sight of her boyfriend had made her look so dreadful, but it was worth noting. 

Perhaps that information would come in handy later. 

His assistant was tapping her quill gently next to her mouth when he entered, slightly out of breath. She jumped up to greet him, holding out her arms for his coat and scarf. He passed them over and watched as she tapped her wand along the hem and cleared both pieces of clothing of snow and sleet and hung them on the coat rack. 

“My meeting with the new Advisor to the Minister is in ten minutes,” he reminded her. 

“Mr. Malfoy, I have already prepared your tea service and set out some croissants and bagels for your meeting,” she answered, already taking her seat. “Only skim milk in the tea, as you requested.” 

“Morgan, you continue to do good work,” he thanked her, nudging the door to his office open. “Send them in whenever they arrive,” he called back to her. 

“Yes, sir, Mr. Malfoy,” Morgan answered. 

As the head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Draco was used to having meetings with several other heads of the Ministry at a moment’s notice, most notably the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which worked closely with his own department. However, most of those meetings were predicated on some sort of incident, something that needed to addressed and solved. This meeting had been set up without any warning, and without reason. 

Truthfully, (and Draco only really allowed himself to be truthful in his own mind) he was worried that he was in trouble for something nonsensical. Those sorts of accusations had run rampant after the war, when Draco had first started in the department. Everyone was always worried that he was plotting something, that he held grudges against certain families (his grudge against certain Weasley offspring was mentioned loudly and often, though he could say with honesty that those accusations had been well-founded). Perhaps this was some new way of catching him off-guard so he could finally be sacked. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Morgan tapped gently on the edge of his door. “The new Advisor to the Minister is here. Should I send her in?” 

Her? 

“Malfoy,” Hermione Granger was standing in his door, her coat and scarf gone, her dark purple robes tasteful and pressed. He wished he could say he was surprised, but of all people to be promoted to practically the next Minister of Magic, it was not difficult to see that it would be Hermione Granger. 

“Granger,” he said with the same tone, and she smirked. “Come in. Tea?” 

“Please,” she took the seat closest to the window, her eyes on his practiced movement. “I imagine you know why I’m here?” 

He held up the silver pair of tongs used to hold sugar cubes. She nodded, holding up one finger; he dropped it in and stirred, leaving the warm cup still rotating in front of her. He took his own cup of tea black, unsure if he wanted to use his mental faculties to make his tea or unravel the riddle she just set before him. 

“I’m very sure that I don’t know why you’re here,” he replied finally. “Croissant?” 

“Sure,” she shrugged, and he levitated one in her direction. She tore off a piece of the end and chewed pensively, allowing the moment to elongate without any explanation. He watched her eat with as much patience as he could muster, but he could tell that he had given something away in his face, because her eyes sparkled the longer the silence stretched. 

“Granger –”

“Malfoy,” she interrupted deftly, and he allowed it with a scowl. “What are your aspirations in the Ministry?” 

He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean exactly what I said,” she replied, a trifle belligerently. “Where do you want to go? Which department?” 

He hesitated, quickly considering all of his options to see which one would be appealing. “I always wanted to work in the Magical Law Enforcement department,” he admitted, taking a sip of his tea to calm his anxious mind, “but Potter won’t let me anywhere near it.” 

“That’s true, you’ll never touch that department with a ten foot pole,” she agreed pensively. “You’ve never thought about working in sports?” 

“You and I both know that I was only slightly above mediocre at Quidditch,” Draco acknowledged. “Though I feel you’re leading up to something.” 

She nodded. “I am, Malfoy, I am.” 

She took another bite of her croissant, and the length of time she allowed the silence to continue almost drove him mad. “Are we going to get to it anytime soon?” he asked impatiently. 

“I want to offer you a promotion.” 

He blinked, his usually impassive face unable to stop the series of emotions that flickered over his countenance. Disbelief, surprise, confusion, and finally, suspicion. Hermione acknowledged them all with a smirk that rivaled his own; if anything, that made him even more cautious. This was not the same Hermione Granger that couldn’t spit out a sentence down in the atrium. This Hermione Granger was self-assured, confident, in control. 

Draco Malfoy was suddenly very aware that their roles were usually reversed. 

“A promotion?” he repeated. She raised her eyebrows in an affirmative gesture. Draco narrowed his eyes at the movement, finding it immediately dubious. “So what exactly is the Ministry playing at now?” he asked, rising from his chair, finding he had too much anxious energy to stay seated. 

Hermione looked, for a moment, caught off-guard. “What do you mean?” 

He brought his tea cup to his lips and laughed, a chuckle that rang hollow. “I mean, Granger, that the Ministry has spent the last ten years, give or take, trying to find a way to sack me, and now you’re sitting across from me, looking as smug as ever, telling me that I managed a promotion that I never applied for.” 

“Malfoy –”

“I can only assume that it was supposed to be a special kind of blow to send you,” he reasoned acidly, setting his tea cup down with a sharp ‘ting.’ “What better way to show the Malfoy boy his place, right?” 

Hermione kept her seat, as calm as ever. “I had no idea that someone so privileged could suddenly sprout a victim complex,” she said it quietly, almost to herself, but Draco still froze. 

“What was that?” he asked dangerously. 

“You heard me,” she met his eyes without fear. “I have no ulterior motives. I was given the opportunity to choose which head of department I wanted to promote, and after careful research – and you, more than anyone, know that I always do my research – it has come to my attention that you are the best person for the job.” 

“And what job, pray tell, is that?” he snapped. 

Hermione reached into a bag by her feet that Draco had never noticed and pulled out a file, colored a dark blue. She passed it over the table to him, sliding it over the smooth oak surface. He took it with the tips of his fingers, the silence calming them both. 

“I was made aware of your experience in private security,” she began, her voice delicate, “with Malfoy Enterprises, before –”

“You mean, before my father took it back?” he interrupted, his eyes on the dossier in front of him. “Granger, this is –”

“I know what it is,” she replied. “And unless you have a Silencing charm set in your office at all times, I suggest you stay silent. It is classified information.” 

“Then why are you showing it to me?” he asked, his fingers tracing the soft parchment. 

She smirked again. “Because I knew that once you saw, you wouldn’t be able to say no.” 

“That’s very Slytherin of you, Granger,” Malfoy acquiesced, returning his eyes to the pages. “And this is – a promotion in every respect?” He brought his eyes up to her again; she was leaning forward in her seat, excitement clouding her features. 

“Absolutely,” she answered. 

“I find it hard to believe that you chose me for this, over Potter or Weasley” Malfoy admitted, folding up the file, unwilling to read more, lest it tempt him to forget reason. “You hate me.” 

“Hate is a strong word,” she side-stepped, the spasm that crossed her face at the mention of Weasley’s name unacknowledged. “Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t choose you because I thought we’d be best friends when we’re done,” he snorted, and she waved him off to continue. “I picked you because of your background and your ruthless dedication to detail.” 

“Like you,” he pointed out. 

“Like me,” she agreed. “So, what shall I say to Minister Shacklebolt?” she rose to her feet slowly, her bag clutched in her hand. “Do you accept your promotion?” 

She held her hand out for the file, and Draco passed it over easily. “Conditionally,” he replied warily. 

“Of course,” she sighed. “I can’t say I’m surprised.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Don’t get your wand in a knot, Granger. I just want to talk to the Minister first.” 

She slid the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “Well, I think that could be…doable,” she acquiesced. “If my schedule is correct –”

“If, says the meticulous swot –”

“He should be free in an hour or so,” Hermione finished, raising an eyebrow at his interjection but otherwise not acknowledging his insult. “But be prepared, he is far more convincing than I am.” 

***

Hermione’s office was warm and inviting when she finally managed to return to it, her orange coat in her arms and her scarf loosely hanging around her neck. She hung the coat around the back of her chair and slipped off her heeled shoes and into a pair of flat, fur-lined sensible shoes that she kept in her office at all times before she crossed the hall into the foyer of the Minister’s office. 

The Minister’s assistant was writing something on a piece of parchment, and Hermione waited patiently for him to finish, allowing herself a moment to take in the comforting toffee smell of the office, the warm red silk pillows in the waiting area. Kingsley had tried to make the Minister’s office more inviting when he had achieved the position, and Hermione found that this section of the Ministry of Magic was the most comforting, despite the intimidation that came with the job titles in this wing. 

“Miss Granger,” Paxton gave her a sunny smile that she returned. “The Minister has just arrived, let me make sure he’s ready for you.” 

“Of course,” she tipped her head graciously as he stood. It wasn’t long before Paxton was returning, leaving the door to the Minister’s office open so she knew she could pass whenever she wished. Kingsley was sitting at his desk, rifling through a stack of papers. 

“I trust this is a triumphant report?” he asked kindly. 

Hermione shrugged. “Triumphant enough,” she replied. “He would like to speak with you first.” 

Kingsley chuckled. “You really predicted him to the letter, didn’t you, Miss Granger?” 

Hermione allowed herself a self-assured smile. “I know Malfoy better than he thinks,” she noted. 

“And you are still convinced he is the best person –”

“Absolutely, sir.” 

Kingsley offered her his seat. “I was surprised that you didn’t recommend Mr. Potter.” 

Hermione took the seat, crossing her legs at the ankles. “Harry would have been a great choice, but with Ginny and the baby on his plate, I worry that he wouldn’t have the time to devote to the problem, and I could not forgive myself asking him to spend so much time here and not with his newborn son.” 

Kingsley nodded. He had heard this explanation before. “And Mr. Weasley?” 

“Mr. Weasley is not the head of any department,” Hermione answered briskly. 

Kingsley’s eyes met hers in a knowing way over the desk, and she quickly averted them. “Understandable,” he replied, though what he found understandable Hermione did not know, and he did not deign to explain himself. “So, Mr. Malfoy –”

“Is as dedicated to his job as I am,” Hermione finished. “And he might be a – excuse me for saying – a prat, but his attitude is of no consequence based on his other qualifications.” 

“But you can work with him?” Kingsley asked, folding his hands in front of him, surveying her in a way that reminded Hermione of Albus Dumbledore. “You trust him with your life? With my life?” 

“With my life? No,” Hermione chuckled. “But with yours? Absolutely. He has a thirst to prove himself, and I think he will rise to the occasion. And as for his attitude? It can be handled.” 

“I hope you are right, Miss Granger,” Kingsley said significantly. “Now, draw up the paperwork for Mr. Malfoy’s promotion, and have yourself another cup of tea. You still look chilled. 

***

Draco Malfoy had visited the Minister’s office when he was very young, and later when he was only seventeen years old. He had seen Cornelius Fudge in office, when the lime green bowler hat occupied his attention more than the gargoyle statues in the hallways and the cold stone floor. He had not seen Rufus Scrimgeour in office, his stint as Minister being so short, but he had the distinct dishonor of seeing Pius Thicknesse, under Voldemort’s control, take over this very same office. 

It looked so different now, he thought, like his past visits were part of some vivid nightmare. The stone floors were covered with warm rugs; the smell of tea and toffee permeated the air. It felt, and looked, like a comfortable library, not the place where the ruler of the wizarding world spent most of his time. 

For some reason, the huge change in décor did not calm him in the slightest; in fact, it made him more painfully aware that he did not belong here. His childhood, his adolescence, and even parts of his adult life were defined by the cold stone floors and the gargoyle statues that watched you for any indiscretion. 

“Mr. Malfoy?” the assistant at the desk was bright and sunny, and for some reason, that was borderline infuriating to Draco. He gave the man a curt nod. 

“Paxton Sands,” the assistant held out his hand, and Draco shook it without really listening. “The Minister is waiting for you, whenever you’re ready.” 

Draco found himself lingering in the foyer, Paxton’s friendly and gentle eyes watching him out of the corner of his eye. Finally, if only to escape the suffocating warmth of the foyer, he knocked gently on the doorframe of the Minister’s office. 

Kingsley Shacklebolt was just as welcoming as Draco remembered him to be, his handshake warm and firm, his smile genuine. He offered Draco a seat and a cup of tea, which Draco declined. 

“I understand you have some questions for me,” he said, seating himself behind the desk and leaning back comfortably. 

“Did Granger really pick me herself?” Draco asked without preamble. Kingsley took the question deftly, his face impassive. 

“She did,” he nodded, taking a sip of his own tea. 

“Who were her other choices?” 

Kingsley considered him with a knowing smile. “I was not privy to all of the options, but the ones that I heard about were Mr. Potter, Mr. Nott, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Weasley.” 

“Weasley?”

“He is an accomplished Auror,” Kingsley conceded. Draco struggled not to scoff; accomplished was a generous word to use for any of the Weasleys, except perhaps the girl, who had been a marvel on the Quidditch pitch for eight years before she had her first child. Kingsley was regarding him with cool curiosity, waiting for more questions. 

“No women on that list?” Draco asked finally. 

Kingsley shrugged. “Not that she told me,” he answered. “At this point in our history, many of our department heads are men; many women have decided to forgo Ministry jobs. The history of our government has always favored men; women have taken that in stride and started to succeed outside our walls.”

“Why didn’t she pick Potter?” 

“He just had a baby,” Kingsley shrugged. “At least, that what she says. Her notes are a different story.” 

“Her notes?” 

“Her notes on each candidate are as ruthless as I know Miss Granger can be.” 

Draco’s curiosity was piqued. “I want to see them.” 

Kingsley nodded knowingly. “And perhaps she will allow you to, but that is not in my power.” He considered the blond boy across the table shrewdly. “I have a question for you, Mr. Malfoy,” he said finally, his baritone warm. 

“Sir?”

“You want this job; I can see it in your eyes. The fire, the same curiosity that Miss Granger said you had. But I want you to understand the full capacity of this job. It will require investigation; this kind of investigation might make it necessary for you to look into old school acquaintances, maybe even your own family.”

Draco could feel his jaw tightening with each word. “What is your question?” 

“Are you capable of handling this kind of investigation?” Kingsley replied directly. 

Draco considered the question, mulling it in his mouth and his head before the words found their way to his lips. “I admit that I have been very – vocal – in my distaste for the prejudice that follows former Death Eaters and their offspring who might have been forced into participation in the war. Will it make me happy to investigate my friends? No. I think we’ve endured enough.” 

Kingsley smiled. “That does not answer the question.” 

“I’m not sure I have an answer,” Draco admitted. “I am woefully aware that no matter which answer I give, I could be falsely advertising my own self-control.” 

Kingsley nodded. “I guess that’s as good an answer as any,” he said thoughtfully. “So.” 

Draco stood, realizing that his time there was at an end. “I would be happy to help, sir,” he said finally, feeling like he was making some sort of blood pact. Kingsley smiled brightly at him, and Draco noticed, again, the difference between him and the Ministers that came before. 

“Then, congratulations, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister,” he extended his hand for Draco to shake one more time. “I bid you welcome.”


	2. A New Stage

The rest of the week passed in a flurry of activity; Draco was told almost immediately upon his acceptance of his promotion that he was taking on the job immediately, never mind his other obligations to his previous position. He had been entrenched in a battle for goblin’s rights to their own cultural heirlooms, a war that he was not particularly keen on dropping. 

Hermione was the only one that balked when he mentioned it, her stern exterior melting momentarily in sympathy for the goblins. He remembered, with the fuzziness of a long-term memory, the pin she used to wear at Hogwarts. SWEP or something, he thought it was. It was the first glimpse of Hogwarts-era Hermione Granger, and he had rolled his eyes at her sentimental reaction, feeling his own teenage bully rise in him.

He spent an entire day interviewing replacements while Morgan and Paxton packed up his office carefully and moved it to the same hallway that housed Hermione Granger and Kingsley Shacklebolt. When they finished with that, Draco was left sitting in his empty office, wondering blithely if his walls had always been that boring, off-white color, and listening to Morgan and Paxton levitating Morgan’s belongings to the same place. 

To his surprise, Ronald Weasley had applied to take over Draco’s position, a move that not only Draco had not expected, but one he was not prepared for. Their interview had been brief and, frankly, a little nasty, but he was proud to note that Ron did not fit the requirements of the job. He scratched his name off the list with an extra flourish. 

In the end, he promoted Luna Lovegood to his old job. After almost five years of working in his department and in the field with no blemishes on her record, with promptly filed paperwork, and with a lack of bias that made her refreshing, he was glad to hand her more responsibility. She had squealed when he told her, throwing her arms around his neck in a rare show of affection that stiffened his spine. 

It was days before Draco saw Hermione again for longer than the few seconds it took for her to get his signature on a piece of paperwork. She was busier than he expected; she rarely allowed her own assistant to do her more menial tasks for her, citing with a shrug that it was nice to get out of her office and do something easy for a change. 

He didn’t see nary a glimpse of that old Hermione that he had talked to down in the atrium; she was consistently focused, business-like, and efficient. He had to admit that it took him by surprise, how cold and emotionless she was behaving. He remembered her far more fiery than that. He wondered, if only for a moment or two between mind-numbing interviews and overseeing the transfer of his office, if this was just her “job-face,” or if the observation he’d made about Ron Weasley had been accurate. 

Despite the warmth of the Minister’s hall, Draco’s office was kept cold and sparing, a shining beacon of white and silver. It soothed him, being able to close the door to his office and exist in what felt like a Muggle snow globe. He charmed it to be several degrees cooler in there, a welcome reprieve from the warm hallway that always felt like there was a fire burning just around the corner. 

There was a knock at his door, and Morgan poked her head in. She looked more tired than usual, her normally perfectly coiffed hair pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail and her makeup decidedly subdued. Draco supposed that all of the moving had worn her out, and made a mental note to give her a day off next week. 

“Miss Granger to see you, sir,” she said. 

He had been expecting her. “Send her in,” he replied, taking his seat. 

She was wearing Muggle clothes this time, a pantsuit that reminded Draco of something Minerva McGonagall would have worn years ago. Her hair matched Morgan’s, though Draco wondered if Hermione was ever anything but “no-nonsense” nowadays. 

“Malfoy,” she greeted. 

“Granger,” he mimicked her tone. “I don’t have tea today,” he pointed out as she took a seat. 

She waved him off and passed him the same file she had given him the other day, the dark blue enticing and cold. He opened it again, the déjà vu slightly altered now that his desk was in a different part of the Ministry, and this time allowed himself to read it thoroughly, without the pressure of it being snatched away. 

“Have you heard rumors about any of this?” she asked him, after she saw his finger, near the corner of the first page, twitch to turn it. “I mean – from –”

“You mean from any of my old Death Eater buddies?” Draco asked, the sneer in his voice harsh. She bit her lip in what he assumed to be consternation. “No, Granger, I can’t say that I have.” His eyes landed on the few surveillance pictures that had slid to the bottom of the file. One was of Blaise Zabini, skulking around Knockturn Alley, ducking into Borgin and Burkes. He could see, with a twist in his gut, the Vanishing Cabinet in the window. “I don’t imagine they’d be telling me anything anyway.” 

He turned his eyes to the page again. “Resurgence of anti-Muggleborn hostility rising in Knockturn Alley,” he read aloud. “Have you had attacks yet?” he asked her, bringing his eyes up to Hermione, who was watching him plaintively. She shook her head. 

“Some issues of intimidation,” she shrugged, “but nothing that drastic quite yet.” 

He furrowed his brow quizzically. “If it isn’t that drastic, then why did you need to hire someone so quickly?” he asked. 

“It isn’t just about the Muggleborns,” Hermione snapped, and after pausing long enough to see if he would retort, she continued, “would you just read the file?” 

“Do I need to raise my hand before I ask a question now?” he asked, almost under his breath, as he returned his attention to the dossier. She huffed, loudly enough that he knew she wanted to get his attention, but he forced himself to ignore her and keep reading. That’s what she wanted, that’s what she would get. 

He turned the page and stopped, his gaze staring but unseeing. He read the words once, twice, and then a third time. Quietly, he raised his hand. 

“What?” she said, annoyed. 

“Where did you find this?” he held up the page of the dossier, the words “The Dark Lord will rise again” emblazoned over a picture of Kingsley Shacklebolt. It looked like it had been torn directly from the wall. But he had seen that handwriting somewhere, he knew. It lingered, somewhere deep in the recess of his memory. 

“Harry found it,” Hermione corrected him, her voice softened at his tone. “In Knockturn Alley. He goes…well, it doesn’t matter,” she seemed to come back to herself, her airy tone gathering its usual strength once more. “Only a week ago.” 

A week ago. Draco stared at the handwriting again, the curve of the ‘G’, the elaborate ‘D’ and ‘L.’ He knew that handwriting. 

It was his father’s. 

“Why, do you recognize it?” Hermione asked, as shrewd as ever. In a rush that almost dizzied him, Draco hated her. Hated that smug, self-righteous way she did things, the way she carried herself. He hated her with a rush that knocked him off-balance, and only when he shook that feeling loose did he realize he had clenched that picture tight in his fist, and her eyes were on his, a softer brown than usual, almost as if she was concerned. 

“What?” he snapped, and she flinched, her façade of the cool, unflappable Ministry official slipping for just a second. 

“I asked if you recognized it,” she repeated. 

He loosened his grip on the picture and flattened it with his hands, dropping it back into the file. 

“No,” he said quietly. “No, I don’t.” 

***

Morgan left a copy of the Daily Prophet on his desk the next morning, and on the front page, Draco spied his own face, an old photo from a few weeks ago. He watched his lips quirk into a smirk that didn’t look entirely genuine, and for a weird moment that felt rather like an outer body experience, he saw the smugness that everyone else saw, while he simultaneously knew that he hadn’t been particularly happy that day. 

He had broken up with Astoria that day, leaving her in a heap on the floor in their shared flat, crying so hard that her shoulders shook like an earthquake and he wondered if she would pass out. He hadn’t meant to do it, really, but once he’d started talking, he couldn’t put the words back in his mouth, and Astoria was screaming at him. He never responded well to screaming, if he were being completely honest. Not since his aunt Bellatrix could he stand to hear a woman’s scream. 

They weren’t really compatible, just two people that happened to be from the same social situation that were on par with education, looks, and fortune. It was an Austen-type fixed relationship, one that their parents had arranged when they were young based on what they would do for the rest of their lives. But then Voldemort had shaken them all up, and Astoria and Draco didn’t accept pureblood ideals anymore, and Astoria didn’t want to be an heiress, she wanted to be a museum curator, and she had gotten an internship at a Muggle museum, of all bloody places, and Draco had lost Malfoy Enterprises when his father had gotten out of prison. 

They weren’t the same people they were when they were children, but who was, really? She had gone to Germany for her internship, and he had worked day and night climbing the ladder of the Ministry. She came back different, just like he never came home from work the same boy she’d thought she’d marry, rich and cultured, sophisticated and dark. He was a myriad of shadows, far too much darkness for her and not enough spurts of light. 

He wondered if she had gone back to Germany. 

“Did you read it?” Morgan’s voice was soft, as it always was early in the morning. He felt the muscles between his shoulder blades tighten in surprise all the same, lost so deeply in his memories. 

“I was just about to,” he replied, taking from her nimble fingers his morning cup of tea. “Thank you.” 

That garnered a smile from her, warm and tentative, and he thought for a split second what it would be like to take her on a date, to kiss her. She was pretty enough, and kind, and as far as he knew, she didn’t yell much. 

She left him to the paper and as soon as the door was closed, the thought was gone, extinguished like a low-burning candle. He dropped his gaze to the paper, this time sliding easily over his picture. 

“Draco Malfoy promoted to Senior Undersecretary to the Minister,” the headline read. 

“Ahh, you found it,” Hermione’s voice startled him even more than Morgan’s. He struggled to hide the surprise in his face, but the raised eyebrows that Hermione gave him told him he wasn’t really successful. “It’s actually a flattering piece, I’m surprised.” 

“Where’s Morgan?” 

“She stepped away,” Hermione replied, looking momentarily guilty. “To the loo, I think.” 

“So you waited until my assistant left her desk to sneak into my office?” Draco asked, leaning against his desk, “Trying to catch me doing something I shouldn’t be doing?” 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she sneered, but there was still a smile playing around the corner of her mouth. “Now quit being an arrogant prat. What did you think about the article?” 

“I haven’t read it yet,” he confessed.

“It’s the typical fluff piece,” Hermione continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Draco Malfoy, and all of your accomplishments, has been promoted to Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, a post previously held by Hermione Granger. It has been rumored that Miss Granger chose Mr. Malfoy for the position herself, blah blah blah.”

She was hardly looking at him, walking around in a sort of uneven circle on the wide expanse of his office floor. Her hair, usually unruly, was bushier than usual, like she had been messing with it. Her cool demeanor had slid easily into one he recognized: the same nervousness that he had seen outside, when she’d caught him smoking a cigarette. 

He offered her one now, his fingers automatically closing around the pack in his pocket. 

“I don’t smoke,” she said automatically. Draco took one out himself and lit it, casting a non-verbal spell to dissolve the smoke that swirled around him. 

“I really don’t want to ask this,” he began, the cigarette balanced jauntily between his second and middle fingers, “but I feel like I should – are you okay?” 

She looked at him like he just sprouted two heads, her brows furrowed so tight he wondered if it strained her muscles, her mouth screwed up into this little grimace that he almost laughed. 

“I ask because you’re pacing holes in my floor,” he indicated the path she’d been beating into the floor, “and you’re rambling. I’ve never known Hermione Granger, fact book swot extraordinaire, to ramble about anything. It’s usually more of a bulleted list of cited facts from Hogwarts, A History –”

“What’s your point?” she interrupted irritably. 

“My point –” he emphasized, as if he had been just about to say it, “is that you’re acting like something’s wrong. I’m being a genial colleague, or at least, trying to –”

“You, genial?” she asked incredulously, and he sneered. 

“If you’d rather I didn’t ask –”

She waved him off, as she was apt to do. “No, not –” she groaned. “Actually, pass me that,” she indicated his cigarette, and it was his turn to make a completely ridiculous face. Wordlessly, because he didn’t trust what would come out of his mouth, he passed the cigarette to her. 

“Just breathe in,” he instructed. She put the cigarette to her mouth and inhaled, Draco trying not to laugh at her terrified and curious expression. Her eyes met his, her lungs full of smoke, her eyes watering. “And…exhale,” he told her. 

She was already coughing, passing the cigarette back to him. “Nope, nope, never again,” she wheezed between coughs. He took it back, almost fumbling with it when she pulled her hand away too early to avoid touching him. “Harry is in my office,” she said it with the voice of someone recovering from a terrible cough, her eyes red and watering. “I’m kind of hoping if I stay away from it long enough, he’ll just leave.” 

“You? Avoiding Potter?” Draco said with incredulity. “How the mighty have fallen.” 

“Sod off, Malfoy,” she snapped, but her heart didn’t really seem to be in it. 

“What did you do?” he asked, holding the cigarette between his first finger and his thumb now that he was getting closer to the filter. “Did you imply that he has a little bit of an ego? Insult his flying skills? Call him Potter?” 

She lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted acknowledgement of his attempts at humor, and Draco took one last drag off of the cigarette before he put it out in the dirt of his office plant. Hermione watched him do it, a sneer on her face. 

“You’re disgusting,” she said almost absently, and even though he knew she meant his disposal of his cigarettes, it still rankled. He tightened his jaw, trying to keep his childhood bully in check, trying to keep his face impassive. 

“If I’m so disgusting,” he said, feigning calm as much as he could, “then I guess you should get out of my office.” Hermione’s eyes jumped up to his face. “I’m sure you’d rather be talking to your pal, Potter, anyway.” 

“I didn’t mean –”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” he interrupted dully, lowering himself to his chair. “But if you don’t mind, I have an article to read and work to do. We can’t all be war heroes, right?” 

He dropped his eyes to the newspaper, his gaze moving over the words but not really seeing it, and waited. She stood there for a while, watching him worriedly, knowing full well that she had insulted him, but not quite fathoming how to rectify what she’d done. How ironic, Draco thought with a sneer, that she could be so smart and so incredibly stupid. 

“Prat,” she muttered finally, on her way out. 

“Swot,” he retorted at the same volume. She stiffened, and shut the door behind her. 

***

Hermione lingered outside the door for just a moment, long enough to hear Draco get up and pace around the room, in roughly the same path she had just been using to release her anxiety. It had been a mistake to go to his office, she knew that now, but the Minister hadn’t been in, and everywhere else was too far to hide. 

He also didn’t have to be such a prat, she thought bitterly. 

She eased the door to her office open, knowing already that Harry was still inside. He was sitting in front of her desk, idly levitating one of her quills. He looked up as she entered, the bags under his eyes heavy and dark. James was fussy, Ginny had told her by owl a few days ago, and she and Harry were struggling to find time to sleep. 

“Sorry,” she said lamely, shutting the door behind her. “I just had to make sure Malfoy had some of the paperwork I needed him to sign.” 

He waved off her excuses. “Don’t worry about it,” he said kindly, “you have a job to do.” 

“How’s James?” she asked. 

Harry grinned, a lopsided, sleepy grin that warmed her heart. “We finally got him to sleep for more than an hour last night,” he admitted. “I thought I was going to get some good sleep, finally.” 

“But?” 

He shrugged. “But Ron heard about Malfoy’s promotion, and came over to mine and Ginny’s, stinking drunk, and didn’t want to leave.” 

Hermione flopped into her chair. “Oh, Harry, I’m sorry –”

“He thinks you hired him for some sort of revenge,” Harry continued, rolling his eyes, “and I told him that you wouldn’t do something like that –”

“Oh, believe me, Harry, I would,” Hermione argued, “but I have some professional integrity.” 

“I know, Hermione, I know,” Harry said soothingly. “He just – he misses you, that’s all.” 

She shrugged, leaning back in her chair. “Yeah, well.” 

Harry was watching her closely, as if trying to follow a clue that he picked up on without her knowledge. “Are you two ever going to tell me why you broke up?” 

She dropped her gaze to the desk. “He should tell you,” she said quietly. “It’s his burden to bear –”

“And you’re still bearing it, keeping his secret,” Harry pointed out. She sighed heavily, sinking even lower in her chair. He mimicked her posture, his foot touching hers under the desk. “Just –” he stopped, as if gathering his strength to continue, “tell me this. Did he cheat on you?”

She shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “No,” she said after the silence had gone on a long time. “I mean – yes – but no.” 

Harry furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry,” he apologized weakly, “but I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately, I’m afraid I don’t follow.” 

She allowed his joke to pull a smile from her before it slid off her face. “You can’t tell him,” she warned. 

He leaned forward in anticipation. 

“I found letters,” she explained slowly, “love letters. Or…infatuation, I suppose. They were both very careful to avoid the word love. So – I knew that if he had kept up this secret correspondence for so long and hadn’t told me, that he would never tell me. So I took the box from where I found it, put it on the table, and when he came home and saw it, I told him to get out.” 

She remembered the cold, the dead garden, Ron’s silent packing. It all seemed so fake now, a memory diluted to silence with time. But it was as potent as ever. 

“Who was he writing letters to?” Harry asked, his voice soft. He had reached for Hermione’s hand, settling for placing his hand over her wrist when he realized he couldn’t reach. 

She laughed, a cold, humorless chuckle that worried Harry. If it had been Lavender Brown, she would have been throwing things in her office for days, lighting Ron’s belongings on fire on his way out. But other than Lavender Brown, Harry wasn’t sure which other women could have garnered Ron’s attention. 

But what Harry didn’t know that Hermione knew, at least, what she could deduce, was that Ron didn’t particularly like women outright; he liked the women that showed him attention. That was how it was with Lavender, and then with Hermione. Once the war was over, and Ron was a hero in his own right, not just Harry Potter’s poor friend, he had women left and right queuing up to pay him the attention he felt he rightfully deserved. And he did deserve attention, she thought. He did do great things, and he was a good person, a great friend. 

Maybe that was why she was so shocked when she’d seen her signature at the bottom of the letter. Of all the women that showed him attention, she wasn’t one of them. Hermione was sure she had been mistaken, so absolutely sure that she was wrong, that she had to read the signature multiple times, blinking rapidly, to ensure herself of its validity. 

“Hermione,” Harry prodded gently. “Who was it?” 

She sighed. “Pansy Parkinson.”


	3. A Secret Drink

The Manor in Wiltshire had gotten colder the longer Draco stayed away. He trudged up the marble steps to the front door, his father’s new increased security forcing him to Apparate outside the bounds of the manor. His dress shoes shined against the white marble, but that opulent sight didn’t comfort him the way it used to. It twisted in his gut, the same way he felt when he saw his father’s handwriting on that piece of parchment. He swallowed it back, allowing himself a few moments of sheer silence to arrange his facial features, to straighten his back, and to tilt his chin high, the way his father taught him to. 

He knocked, the sound echoing through the foyer and up the grand staircase just to the left. With a punctuated pop, a house elf that Draco only vaguely recognized appeared in the doorway. “How can I help you, Mister?” he asked curtly, his little gnarled hands behind his back. 

“I wish to speak with my father,” Draco tried to keep the annoyance in his voice to a minimum, but he could hear that it hardly worked. Why was he being greeted outside the front door like an unwanted aunt or pimply cousin, thrice removed? “Is he in?” 

The house elf gave him a quick once-over. “Master Lucius is in his study, but he is very busy.” 

“Tell him his son is here to see him,” Draco snapped. When the house elf continued to stare up at him, he raised his eyebrows. “Now.” 

“Yes, sir,” the house elf sighed, and anger spread all the way to the tips of Draco’s fingers. What kind of elaborate statement was his father trying to make with this? What kind of wretched behavior would he be expected to endure now? Nervously, he straightened the collar of his robes, and unwrapped the grey scarf from around his neck, knowing his father would make some sort of deprecating comment about the femininity in wrapping a scarf around his neck, as if being warm somehow made a man less masculine.

He had left Granger talking to Potter in her office, their voices hushed behind her closed door, to make this visit. He didn’t have a lot of time to do it before someone would notice he was gone. He could make the excuse that he had gone out to get lunch, but that was a rarity that Morgan would surely accidentally comment on. Granger would note the inconsistency in less than a second, and her probing questions would only lead to one place. 

He didn’t want to think about it. 

The house elf popped back in front of Draco, his arms held behind his back. “Master Lucius says he is very busy.” 

“Listen, you presumptuous little rat,” Draco growled, “You tell my father that he will speak to me, or Aurors will be here to take him into custody in an hour flat. Understand?” The house elf blinked slowly, his façade of calm not even a smidge rattled, and popped away again. 

“Goodness, what in the world is going on out here?” a welcome voice wafted in through the crack in the open front door, and Draco exhaled a sigh of relief at the sound of his mother’s voice. “Draco, my darling, is that you?” 

“Mother,” he answered dutifully. “I’m afraid I can only step over the doorway with express permission. New security.” 

“Oh, what an unnecessary precaution,” Narcissa threw the door open all the way, surveying her son with a smile. “What are you, a vampire? Come in, my son, come in!” 

Finally, grateful that he wasn’t completely exiled by everyone in his family, Draco stepped into the house, the shade of the Manor changing the middle of the day to dusk in the foyer. His mother left him to close the door behind him; she was already moving back toward her sitting room off the foyer, chattering away excitedly at the sight of her son. Draco struggled to shut the door, follow, and listen at the same time. 

“ – haven’t had any visitors in a long time, you know how your father gets, my dear, with his bouts of anti-social behavior,” she was saying. “And I heard about your promotion in the paper, congratulations, though I suppose hearing it directly from you would have been preferable.” 

“My apologies, Mother,” Draco said politely, knowing when his mother was asking for an apology. “I had to begin work right away and had to hire my replacement. This is my first moment I’ve had free, and even this is only a few minutes.” 

“Well, you must come to dinner soon,” Narcissa replied immediately, her eyes dropping to a half-finished flower arrangement in front of her. “I have been working on growing some white peonies out in the garden, my son, and you know how finicky they can be.” 

“I do, Mother,” he answered blandly. “Mother –” he asked before she could continue about flowers and gardening, a tangent which he could never hope to return. “Is Father in? I’d like to speak with him.” 

“Your father?” Narcissa asked, her almost transparent eyebrows shooting upward. “Why would you want to talk to your father?” 

“Is a son not allowed to converse with his father?” Draco asked, though that was mostly a probe, a test to see how she’d react. He was not surprised, however, to see his mother grimace and fidget uncomfortably with the tasteful French twist of her pale hair. 

“You and your father left things very –”

“I remember.” Draco didn’t need to be reminded of the last time he was here, with his father’s cold smirk and the shouted words. “But now that he has Malfoy Enterprises back, I would hope, at least, that he would have…moved on.” 

“Your father sees the way you ran the company as a betrayal to the family values,” Narcissa’s voice had lost the shrill, uplifting tone, and it was only now that Draco noticed her welcome, her manic attempts to keep him occupied, had been faked, a outward show of civility and not an genuine one. “Deciding not to try to win his affection back was another.” 

“I tried to pursue my own career,” Draco argued. “I thought he would have seen the merit in that decision.” 

“There was only one right answer, son,” Narcissa shrugged, her eyes finally leaving the flowers to settle on her distraught offspring. “And I’m afraid, according to your father, you did not choose it.” 

Draco, who had been sitting uncomfortably at the edge of the white chaise lounge that occupied the sitting room, rose unsteadily to his feet. “I’m going to assume that leaving Astoria was the third strike?” he asked quietly. His mother didn’t look up at him, accustomed as she was to the Malfoy men and their dramatics. 

“He was very displeased with that as well,” she agreed. “However, I think it was that you didn’t consult him in the matter of your next choice that poisoned him against you.” 

“I didn’t choose anyone,” Draco exclaimed. “But I suppose even no choice is still a choice to Father because he didn’t make it.” 

Narcissa nodded only once, pulling a peony out of the arrangement and dropping it with a faint sneer of derision onto the table. A few of the petals shook loose and fluttered away from their home. Draco felt for them. 

“I’m going to speak with him,” he said finally, when the silence had stretched on too long. “I won’t take long.” 

“Draco, don’t –”

He ignored her and stalked away, choosing to be silent over stomping if only so his father wouldn’t hear him coming. The door to the study was locked, but a complicated unlocking spell that Draco did nonverbally with a swish of his wand saw to that. 

Still, even as the oak door swung open, Draco lingered in the doorway, nerves suddenly tight in his belly, his left hand shaking just slightly. His father was sitting at the desk, shifting through sheets of parchment, his white hair pulled back in a queue, tied with black. 

“I’m afraid that I’m busy,” he finally said, not bothering to look up. “If there’s something you’d like to say, call my assistant and make an appointment.” 

Draco swallowed hard past the childhood fear in his throat, and stepped completely into the room. “What are you doing?” he asked. His tone must have been more significant than he intended, because his father glanced up from the parchments, his grey eyes landing on his son’s. Distaste swam over his pointed features before he looked back down. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” he said, his voice cool. 

“I mean –” Draco could feel his teenage belligerence aching to be set forth, and his own childhood paranoia pulling it back. “I…” he hesitated. How to approach the situation without showing his hand? His father was a more masterful chess player than he; he would have to tread carefully. 

“If you’re finished spluttering like a half wit, I still have work to do –”

“Enough,” Draco snapped. “Enough of your contemptuous…whatever this is. I know you’re not busy – you’ve been flipping between the same two half-empty pieces of parchment this whole time. Your inkwell isn’t even open.”

His father’s fingers released the parchment and Draco watched them flutter to rest. 

“I don’t know what you’re up to, with your old…friends,” he emphasized the word just enough that his father’s eyebrows rose, “but the next time I see any sort of evidence that you’re breaking the law, I will be in here myself to take you back to Azkaban. Is that clear?” 

Lucius chuckled just once before returning his eyes to the parchment. “No you won’t,” he said confidently, finally uncorking his inkwell. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Draco asked. “Because of the sheer volume of love my family has shown me since the war ended?” he scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

“Because you’re a coward,” his father said simply. “Or else you would have arrested me already.” 

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but he could think of nothing. He was hard pressed to say that his father was incorrect, and that same childhood bully that had to overcompensate for that missing bit of bravery that everyone else seemed to have recoiled sharply at the truth. 

“If that’s all,” Lucius said dismissively. 

He lingered there, half of his body wanting desperately to flee, and the other half too proud to go. Finally, he finished with the only trump card he had. 

“I might be too much of a coward to come arrest you, but Hermione Granger isn’t.” 

***

Draco rarely bothered to come back to the office when he was in so foul a mood, but he wasn’t sure what Granger would say if he didn’t come back, and he didn’t feel secure enough in his new position to know that he could forgo her orders without serious repercussions. So instead of going home and drinking himself stupid, he went back to the office, his face so tight and ashen that people jumped out of his way hastily when they saw him coming. Even Morgan, when she caught sight of him, didn’t greet him. 

She knew better. 

He pulled out his package of French cigarettes and lit one at his desk, staring at the white wall, letting his mind wander. When he was in Hogwarts, he always assumed he’d end up somewhere like this; but when he pictured it, he imagined that he’d at least have some friends that would cushion the blow. Blaise, maybe, or Theo. Hell, even Astoria. But here he was, alone in every sense of the damnable word, without even his mother’s unfailing graciousness to soothe the ache. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Morgan’s voice was tentative, and when he didn’t answer, she stepped further into the room. “I know this isn’t a good time, but I figured you could use this.” 

She slid a silver flask over the desk to him. His eyes landed on it for just a moment before he smirked, and raised his gaze to her. She was already backing away from him like he was a dangerous animal, stepping back out the door and closing the door gently behind her. He twisted the top of the flask off and took a sniff. Firewhiskey, and the good stuff, too. 

The first swig made him feel worse. The second one made him feel marginally better. 

***

It was almost eight in the evening when Hermione finally mustered up the courage to knock on Malfoy’s office door with the intent to apologize for her earlier behavior. She and Harry had spent the afternoon talking about Ron and Pansy’s secret love affair, as Harry had called it, though Hermione had immediately balked at the phrase. For a while, she had been able to forget that she had been unnecessarily rude to Malfoy earlier, but once Harry was gone, she felt guilty. Surprisingly guilty, even. 

She chalked it up to professional integrity that she decided to apologize at all; it would’ve been easier to just maintain a stern kind of distance, one that she would have utilized had this been their position five years ago. But this was a new leaf, she told herself. They were going to have to trust each other. 

So she knocked on his door, and after a few moments of silence, pushed it open. 

Malfoy was facing away from her, a cigarette in his hand. The whole room stank of smoke and something spicy underneath it. She could see, from the back of his head, that his hair was disheveled, more than she had ever seen it. 

“Malfoy?” she asked. 

He jumped as though startled, and she saw him fumble with something shiny in his left hand. 

“Is that a flask?” 

He gave up trying to hide it and slid it over the desk to her. “Use it,” he said, his voice rough with smoke and alcohol. 

“Use it for what?” Hermione asked, picking up the flask and turning it over in her hand. It was almost empty. 

“Evidence,” he shrugged. “To fire me.” 

“Why would I do that?” she asked. “You think you’re the only one to drink at the office?” 

He turned halfway in his chair to stare at her; she was leaning far back in the chair, her hair pulled out of its no-nonsense ponytail and left to hang over her shoulder. She felt ragged; going over the details of her break up with Ron had exhausted her, but looking at Malfoy now, she knew he looked worse than she did. 

“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” she asked, her instincts alive with activity. 

“You should be careful,” he said softly, but the softness of his voice only sounded more sinister. She unscrewed the top of the flask and tilted it back toward her mouth, choking back a swig. 

“Why?” she asked. Malfoy was watching her drink with something like amusement in his expression. 

“Because –” he seemed to hesitate over the explanation. “Don’t worry about it.” 

She surveyed him carefully over the flask before taking a smaller sip. “Listen…” 

“I’m always listening, Granger,” he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. 

“I just wanted to come by and apologize for being rude to you earlier,” Hermione said in a rush. “I was just nervous about talking to Harry and I took it out on you. That was unprofessional.” 

“Nervous about talking to Potter?” Malfoy asked, opening one silver eye to examine her. “Why?” 

“Because I knew he was going to ask me about why I hired you,” Hermione said with a shrug. That was a little over half true, she reasoned. “I figured he would be upset. Old grudges and all that.” 

Malfoy chuckled, using the lit end of one cigarette to light his next one. “So does the Chosen One still hate my guts?” 

“Why wouldn’t he?” Hermione asked offhandedly. 

Malfoy nodded absently. “I suppose that’s true,” he said, but he looked so despondent that Hermione jumped in. 

“I mean, he didn’t really seem upset,” Hermione amended. “Besides, I don’t hate you, so why should he?” 

Malfoy chuckled, the sound deep in his chest, and exhaled the smoke in her direction. “You know, Granger, you and Morgan might be the only people in the world that don’t hate me.” He surveyed her confused expression for a moment before turning back to his cigarette. “Don’t look so surprised,” he continued. “Isn’t this what you and your perfect friends always predicted for me? A cold and lonely existence?” 

“My friends aren’t perfect,” Hermione said, but her voice was quiet, as if she wasn’t sure how to handle this admission. “I pretty much only talk to the Minister, Harry, and Ginny.” 

“And now me,” Malfoy pointed out. 

“And now you,” she agreed. 

They sat in silence for a while, Hermione trying to figure out how to leave without being rude, while simultaneously not wanting to leave Malfoy alone in this state of weird, unmoored depression. 

“What about Weasley?” he asked finally. She visibly flinched away from the question, lifting the flask to her lips again. “That looks promising,” he said, indicating her expression. He took a drag of his cigarette and flicked the ash with no regard as to where it would fall. 

“Ron and I are not speaking right now,” she said simply. “It’s not really something I’d like to talk about.” 

“I’m going to file that response away for later,” he said, holding out his hand for the flask again. Hermione passed it to him, letting him close his fingers around the flask, two of the fingers landing on top of hers before she released it. “Perhaps it’ll come in useful.” 

“I find it just postpones the inevitable,” she said gravely, watching him carefully. He raised his eyebrows and she took that as agreement.


	4. Colin Creevy

The attack came in the middle of the night; at least, that’s when Draco was informed of the incident. It was just past the perfect twilight of two in the morning, the moon shining brightly through the window. A Patronus sailed into his bedroom, the eerie glow shaking him from his light sleep, looking like a specter that just detached from the sparkling edge of the moon. The shining otter came to a halt at the foot of his bed, and when it opened its mouth, Hermione’s voice poured out of it. 

“Muggle-born attack in Knockturn Alley,” it said, her voice rapid, uneven, and terrified. It sounded like the Hermione Granger from Hogwarts, from the war. The sound of it sent panic through his veins, panic that his therapist had called post-traumatic stress disorder. He took a moment to heave a deep breath, trying to steady his already trembling hands. When had he started trembling? He kicked the sheets off of him as the Patronus continued. “Get here now.” 

As it dissipated, leaving the room in darkness, Draco Accio’d a pair of slacks and a shirt, forgoing wizarding robes for Muggle clothes and a cloak. Before he could censor his movement, his shaking hand landed on his pack of Muggle cigarettes; he lit one with his wand and turned on his heel in one swift movement, feeling the tight pressure of Apparition start at his chest and expand to the rest of his body. 

He landed gracefully, though his hands were still unsteady, and he could see, at the end of the lane, the flashing lights of photographers. He let his eyes take in his surroundings from a distance, the grimy, dirty walls, the litter underneath his shoes. 

“Malfoy,” Granger spotted him before he spotted her; her hair was braided and pulled back so tight that the usual cloud of hair that surrounded her was gone. He took in the braid and makeup free face of his new superior for a moment, finding an inexplicable comfort in the face that he recognized from Hogwarts, before the war turned children into cynical adults. 

“What happened?” he asked, leaning toward her so she could talk directly into his ear without giving any details away to the press, lingering close behind them both. Aurors were surrounding a prostrate body in a tight circle, Healers from St. Mungos just inside that ring. Draco could see nothing but a pair of what looked like men’s shoes. 

“Someone attacked Colin Creevy,” she said, her voice soft, wafting into the gentle skin of his neck. He had never realized how small she was. “Carved some symbol into his chest, took a bunch of his blood.” 

“Took his blood?” Draco repeated, pulling away from Granger enough to look down in confusion. Her large eyes, unencumbered by makeup, stared up at him and he understood: she was just as lost as he was. “You don’t recognize the symbol?” 

“No,” she shook her head, taking a half-step away from him as a camera flashed. “We have some evidence photos that the MLE officers are going to get to me as soon as possible so we can start doing research.” 

He nodded absently, his mind racing. “Good,” he said quietly. “Good.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, already half burned, and exhaled away from her. 

“Care to share some of that?” she asked shakily, and he noticed, almost belatedly, that her hands were shaking, just like his. He passed it over, careful to guide the cigarette into her unsteady hands so she wouldn’t drop it, and watched her inhale shallowly and exhale. 

“Hermione?” Harry’s voice was an unwelcome distraction, and Hermione immediately jumped like she’d been caught misbehaving, and passed the cigarette back. “That’s a bad habit,” he said, nodding at the cigarette that Draco was bringing up to his lips. 

“Everything’s a bad habit, Potter,” Draco drawled, blowing the smoke just over his shoulder so he couldn’t get in trouble for blowing it in his face. “Have you and your guys found anything else?” 

Harry ran his hand through his hair, the rifts in the dark locks deep and seemingly permanent. “Colin is still out, and the Healers think that he should stay like that for a day or two so that the Blood Replenishing Potions can do their jobs, so we won’t be able to talk to him for a while. As for that symbol, we’re relying on you two for that.” 

“Do we know that this is directly related to…?” he let his gaze slide smoothly over to Hermione, who nodded. 

“We found this,” she said, sliding over a piece of paper, “in his breast pocket.” 

“Enemies of the heir, beware?” Draco read incredulously. The other two stared at him, grim-faced. “What, you two don’t see the humor in this?” 

“I’m sure it would be hilarious if Colin hadn’t just almost been killed,” Harry said dryly, yanking the paper back and tucking it into his pocket. 

Draco groaned. “That’s not what I meant,” he exclaimed. “But…enemies of the heir? Come on, even if the Heir of Slytherin was still a thing – which it isn’t,” he clarified as Hermione’s eyes met his, “the basilisk is dead, and so is Voldemort. This looks like a prank.” 

Harry glared at him, and he hastened to clarify. “A shitty prank,” he said firmly. “But how else do you explain this?” 

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugged. “I imagine it’s above my pay grade.” 

He left them there, standing shoulder to shoulder, as he pushed his way back to the center of the ring, and Draco managed to get a glimpse of a pale face, even whiter than his own, with a smattering of blood decorating the pale visage. With a grunt, he flicked the cigarette away from him, into the crawl space between decrepit shops, and stormed away. 

He couldn’t say what put him in such a foul mood; perhaps it was the way that Potter and Granger looked at him, in frank horror, when he said he found that note funny. Maybe it was that he found the note funny at all. Maybe it was the snide smile he’d caught on Rita Skeeter’s face as he turned away from the MLE officers that put a roiling sense of unease in his belly. Whatever it was, he was not happy to hear the quiet footsteps of Hermione Granger following him down the lane, her shorter strides struggling to keep up with his own. 

“Where are you going?” she asked, and even though she didn’t sound angry, he stopped like he had been reprimanded all the same. 

That was the question, wasn’t it, Draco thought. Where was he going? His only thought had been to get as far away from two-thirds of the Golden Trio as much as he could without angering the one that decided whether or not he got to keep his job. 

“I’m –” he hesitated long enough for Hermione to put a hand on her hip. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee, and then I’m going to St. Mungos, so I can make sure no one is there to off our little Creevy before he receives proper medical care.” 

“I do wish you’d call him something else,” Granger fretted, wringing her hands but falling into step beside him all the same. Draco didn’t respond for a while, taken aback as he was by her presence at his side (surely there was something else she could be doing?), but when he finally processed her question, he couldn’t help but shrug. 

“The victim, then?” he asked, rather brusquely. “Would that make you feel better?” 

“Well,” she actually considered it, and that was enough to make Draco stifle another ill-advised bout of humor, “I suppose not.” 

“Creevy it is, then,” he replied. “Now, if you’re coming with me, Granger, you’re going to have to hold on.” He offered her his arm, and she stared at it with what he recognized as the unease she felt when she couldn’t immediately answer her own question. 

“Why?” 

“The Leaky Cauldron isn’t exactly open all night, Granger,” Draco drawled, his arm still extended for her to take. “I’m going to my flat to get coffee. If you want to come, you’ll have to grab on.” 

She considered his arm for a moment, long enough that Draco was just about to retract it and leave her standing in the middle of the street, before she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. He glanced down at her for just a moment, long enough to see she was steady on her feet, before he turned on his heel and pulled her into the suffocating darkness with him. 

She released him the second her feet touched the floor, but she didn’t step away from him. Her eyes were occupied, scanning the darkened flat with scrutiny. 

“I can get the light if you’d like to inspect in greater detail,” he said dryly, moving toward the small kitchen and flicking on the light with his wand. He turned halfway back to Hermione, who looked embarrassed. “It wasn’t a loaded statement, Granger,” he said, taking out two travel mugs from one of the only cabinets in the kitchen he ever opened. “Look around if you want. My father has all of the Dark artifacts.” 

“Malfoy –”

“That was a joke, Granger,” he answered with his back to her, pouring coffee beans into a grinder. “A lighthearted attempt at humor.” 

“Tell that to your face,” she replied, turning completely away from him to inspect his bookshelves. 

“That’s fair,” he shrugged, and they subsisted on silence for a few minutes, while Hermione systematically went through his bookshelves and Draco busied himself making coffee. The silence wasn’t quite uncomfortable, but it certainly was far from soothing. He found himself glancing over his shoulder at her several times, trying to decide if the sound she just made was surprise, disapproval, or happiness. He never could figure it out. 

“I have a…potentially offensive question,” her voice shook him out of his reverie and he jumped, pouring just a little more cream into his own coffee than he wanted. 

“Cream and sugar?” he asked. She turned back to him, her braid sliding over her shoulder and onto her back, and nodded. “Go ahead with your offensive question.” 

“Would you happen to have any books on Dark magic?” she asked tentatively, shuffling her feet. The appearance of this warmer, less-business-like Hermione Granger was somehow just as disorienting as the colder one he’d seen at work. He realized, as the silence stretched, that he wasn’t offended, but mildly amused. 

“When the war ended, I was told that I wasn’t allowed to keep any books of that nature in my residence,” he said blandly, tapping the side of the cup to stir the coffee. “I believe you were part of the legislation that made that rule.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly as he passed the cup of coffee over to her. 

“There weren’t many of them in my possession anyway,” he shrugged. “I lived those books, Granger, I didn’t want to read them in my spare time, too.” 

She looked like she wanted to apologize again, but Draco cut her off. “I had to study a lot of them when I was a kid, so if you’re thinking what I think you are –”

She glanced back up to him, alarmed. 

“I might be able to recognize that symbol when I see it,” he continued as if he didn’t see that look of unease that crossed her face. “If not, I might at least know where to start.” 

“Who do you think did this?” she asked. 

A pang of guilt shuddered through him at the question. He could certainly hazard a well-educated guess. Instead, he took a sip of the coffee and shook his head. “There are several suspects, Granger,” he replied. “A lot of the older generation of Death Eaters are still entrenched in that mindset. Any of them could be responsible.” 

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to give her such an obvious clue; perhaps it was the paranoia that if he didn’t, she would see the lie all over his face. But for a moment, they existed in a perfect silence, Hermione holding onto the warm cup, her eyes focused just past him as her brain thought furiously. He watched her mind work, the way her eyes flickered from above him, to his face, to the coffee cup in her hand. 

“Come on,” he said when the silence stretched too long. “I’m sure Creevy is at St. Mungos by now.” 

Without asking, she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm again. 

***

“I kept some tea warm,” Ginny said when Harry finally returned home, Ron in tow. She shifted the sleeping James slightly in her arms. “What happened?” 

“Colin Creevy,” Harry said without much explanation. “Thank you for the tea, Gin. I can put James to bed if you want to sleep.”

“What happened to Colin?” she asked, trying to keep the shrill fear from her voice. James, in his sleep, shifted slightly in her grip. “Is he…?”

Ron, who was pouring all three of them cups of tea, answered for Harry. “He’s unconscious, and he’s going to stay like that for a day or two, but he looks like he’s going to be okay.” At Ginny’s questioning look, he shrugged. “It looks like some sort of Muggle-born attack.” 

“We don’t know that yet –”

“Why else would anyone attack Colin Creevy?” Ron asked incredulously. “I know that you’re trying to keep me from the more classified information, Harry, but I’m not an idiot. We’ve gotten calls from frightened Muggle-borns for months, talking about ex-Death Eaters watching them on the streets, instances of intimidation. This just seems like the logical next step.” 

“People are paranoid –”

“And they should be!” Ron exclaimed, immediately, dropping his voice when James whined quietly in Ginny’s arms. “Especially with Draco Malfoy –”

“We can’t prove that Malfoy has anything to do with any new unrest,” Harry said firmly, holding out his arms for his son. Ginny gently passed the baby over, stretching her arms experimentally now that she could move them freely. “All we know is that Hermione promoted him herself.” 

“Yeah, have you figured out what that’s about?” Ron asked sharply. “Because that doesn’t sound like the Hermione I know.” 

“Yeah well, people can change,” Harry said quietly, turning away from his wife and his best friend. 

Ron followed him into the living room, careful not to spill his tea. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. 

Harry turned back to his best friend, trying to read something in his face. But he looked confused, and a little angry. Both of those emotions were justified, he supposed, if he was, on the surface, defending Draco Malfoy. “It means…” he hesitated, seeing the red flush in Ron’s cheeks. “It means that the war ended a long time ago, Ron. Perhaps the people that were once…on the wrong side aren’t anymore.” 

“I don’t believe that,” Ron snapped, turning back into the kitchen. 

“You don’t,” Harry said plainly, openly studying his best friend’s face. “Not for any of them?” 

Ron shrugged and turned away, leaving Harry hoping he’d continue, even in a vague way. But the silence continued, and soon, Harry was standing alone in the living room, with Ginny halfway up the stairs to their bedroom, her kiss still lingering on his cheek, James in her arms.

“Ron,” he said, stepping into the kitchen, stretching his arms free of the tense muscles of a new parent. 

“What?” his best friend was still avoiding his eyes, his gaze deep in the dregs of his tea. 

“You know that I know,” Harry said gently, sitting at the dining room table. “Why can’t you just say it?” 

“I have nothing to say,” Ron’s eyes were suddenly on Harry’s bright with anger. “And Hermione had no right to say anything to you. She doesn’t know a damn thing.” 

His voice had quickly grown in volume, and at Harry’s nervous glance toward the stairs, Ron took the seat across from him, wringing his hands together. 

“Can we just focus on figuring out who did this to Colin?” he asked plaintively, and Harry saw, as blatant as he would in his own reflection, the same fear he’d seen in Hermione’s eyes when she saw Colin’s body. “I know Malfoy has something to do with it.” 

“Ron –”

“Have you forgotten that he wanted us all dead at one point?” Ron asked fervently, his fingers twisting around the tea pot in front of him. “He tried to kill Dumbledore, he almost killed us.” 

“Years ago,” Harry said calmly, but that serenity only incensed Ron more. 

“And he’s one of the only Death Eaters to get a job at the Ministry, and suddenly he’s working with ‘Mione? Getting her to smoke cigarettes? Don’t think I didn’t see that,” he was ramping up now, his hands working faster and faster. “She hated him only a matter of days ago and now they’re what? Friends?” 

“They work together –”

“She picked him herself!” Ron exclaimed sarcastically. “At least, that’s what the papers say. Do you believe that?” 

Harry didn’t answer; he knew Hermione had picked Malfoy herself – she’d told him as much, when she told him that she wasn’t going to promote him so he could spend time with Ginny and James. She had explained to him that Malfoy was the best candidate; that she knew without a doubt he had been forced into the Death Eater fold. But none of that was going to comfort Ron now. 

“We should get some sleep,” Harry said instead. “We have an investigation to open tomorrow morning.” 

***

Hermione had been sitting in St. Mungos for hours when Ron and Harry walked in, flanked by their respective partners, Cho Chang and Seamus Finnegan. She rose to greet them, wiping the sleep deprivation from her eyes as Harry’s eyes landed on her. She and Malfoy had been sitting in those chairs, tense and exhausted, their tired eyes searching the face of every person that entered the hospital, hoping they would find something in the same moment that they hoped they’d find nothing at all.

“Any news?” he asked. She glanced over his shoulder for Malfoy, who had gone to get them more coffee and something to eat, and when she didn’t spot him, shook her head. 

“Nothing new. Malfoy and I are just making sure that nobody gets by us that could be connected to the attack. So far the only ones to visit have been his parents and his brother,” she felt her hair, now sliding out of the plait, tickling her forehead, and pushed it back. She could feel Ron’s eyes on her, and the pressure to look at him, but she ignored it, hoping Harry would allow her at least just this reprieve.

“We can take it from here if you’d like,” Ron said, and Hermione finally turned her eyes to her ex-boyfriend. He looked marginally more rested than she did, but she could see something lurking under his eyes; it looked kind of like familiar affection, or perhaps it was relief.

“Vanilla coffee with extra sugar and a cinnamon bagel,” Malfoy’s voice was just slightly louder than usual, and Hermione watched as Ron’s face hardened. “Potter,” he greeted, ignoring everyone else. “Anything new?” 

“We were just asking you the same question,” Harry said easily, trying to ignore Ron’s splotchy face as Malfoy passed the bagel and coffee over to Hermione. Malfoy took in Ron’s expression with a raised eyebrow and turned back to Hermione, who nervously took a bite of her bagel. 

Harry pushed forward when no one spoke. “Hermione said you two had an uneventful night?”

“I wouldn’t call it completely uneventful,” Malfoy shrugged. “Granger and I spent most of the night spit-balling theories about that symbol.” Ron made a strangled choking sound. “You okay, Weasley?” 

“Anyway,” Harry said sharply, trying to get Malfoy’s attention again. “We are going to relieve you both, if that’s okay with you, ‘Mione.” 

“She is the boss,” Malfoy said, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Right, Granger?” 

“Harry and his team are going to take over from here,” she said instead of answering him, confirming Harry’s plan while simultaneously refusing to join in on whatever provocation Malfoy was trying to accomplish.

Malfoy turned his gaze back to the group of MLE officers, Seamus and Cho shifting awkwardly on their feet behind Harry and Ron. Hermione had the distinct feeling that he was enjoying this particularly uncomfortable exchange; there was a mischievous sparkle in his eye she hadn’t seen since they were teenagers. 

“Good,” he said, glancing over to Ron for a moment before turning back to her. “Might I suggest going home to catch a little bit of sleep?” he directed at Hermione. “We all know how you get if you don’t get enough sleep.” 

His smirk only grew when Ron spluttered behind him; Hermione widened her eyes at him, a silent reprimand that he acknowledged with a slight nod. 

“’Mione, could I speak to you?” Ron’s voice was slightly louder than necessary, and Malfoy’s smirk grew into an actual grin. Hermione was reminded of the Cheshire cat. “Privately?” 

“Actually, Malfoy and I have to…” she trailed off, her eyes finding Malfoy’s. Swiftly, he stepped in. 

“We have to make sure we get this paperwork finished,” he said deftly, stepping close enough to Hermione that their shoulders brushed against each other. “Sorry, Weasley. Your tete-a-tete will have to be rescheduled.” 

“You know what, Malfoy –”

“Ronald,” Hermione’s voice held a warning that forced him silent. “Not now.” 

She let Malfoy lead her away, and as they made it out of earshot of the Aurors, she allowed herself to stomp through the double doors and onto the street. He followed her silently, and she wondered if he was waiting for her to yell at him. 

“Don’t do that again,” she said instead, her voice as calm as she could possibly make it. 

He shrugged as he slid the cigarette into his mouth. “Do what?” he asked innocently. 

“Are you trying to make him jealous or something?” Hermione snapped as he lit the cigarette deftly and blew the smoke in her direction. His ease didn’t soothe her; if anything, it made her angrier. 

“Why would I do that?” his voice was still innocent, just a slightly higher pitch than usual. 

“Because you live to try to make that little vein on his forehead pop out?” Hermione said sarcastically. “That’s a question you should be answering for me. We all know you wouldn’t deign to touch a Mudblood with a ten-foot pole, so all of those snide comments about how I get when I don’t get a lot of sleep are completely unnecessary.” 

His face had gone completely still while she was talking, the cigarette burning in his fingers. “You’re right, Granger,” he said, his voice so cold she wanted to shiver. “Those comments weren’t necessary. Obviously you can handle your ex-boyfriend yourself, what with your hiding in your office, and talking to me outside the Ministry for no good reason.”

“Malfoy –”

“Or was that just because you wanted to strike up a conversation with a former Death Eater?” he asked, the question so brusque it was obviously rhetorical. “Because we all know that a war hero wouldn’t deign to touch a Death Eater with a ten foot pole, right?” 

“I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly, “I shouldn’t –”

“And in case you forgot,” he hissed, taking a step closer to her, “I allowed you into my home just a few hours ago. I willingly offered you my arm; and I haven’t said that – that word – since the war. But I suppose the only people that are allowed to change are the good guys.” 

He left her standing on the sidewalk alone, the cold wind shoving her coat open unforgivingly. She supposed she deserved it.


	5. Ministry Matters

When he got angry, Draco could see the edges of buildings trembling; he felt the quaking in his hands go all the way to his arms, and he knew if he didn’t hit something, didn’t get the energy out of him, he was going to scream. When he was a child, he would scream at the top of his lungs, because he had once hit his fist on the side of an expensive vase, and the resulting shatter left him with a cut on his hand so deep he could still see the drops of his blood staining the marble floor. 

So he would scream, his hands balled in his hair but not quite yanking, until his voice was hoarse and his throat ached. Now that he was older, the idea of screaming at the top of his lungs was repugnant, childish, and he refused to do it. Instead, the idea of booze and cigarettes tempted him; he denied himself both, knowing he was going to have to go into work today. 

But the knowledge that he was stuck between who he used to be and who he wanted so badly to be put a scream at the back of his throat; he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to swallow it back. It seemed like everyone was convinced that he hadn’t changed since the war ended; why should he decide, in the face of such adversity, to behave better than they expected? There would be a certain triumph in proving everyone wrong, but why would he want to work so hard just to prove himself worthy to people who were so determined to hate him? 

His light was still on when he got back to his flat; he could see it through the window. For a moment, he thought someone was in there, and panic flooded through him. But no; he had tightened security around his flat. No one could get in without his express permission; Granger could only get in because she was holding onto his arm. 

Thinking about that, about her hand on his arm, put the anger back in him. Instead, he snatched up The Dailey Prophet from his front stoop and unfolded it. 

“War Hero and Former Death Eater Getting Cozy Over Attacked Muggle-Born.” 

With a scowl and a tightened jaw that put pain deep into his teeth, he studied the photo that covered a quarter of the front page. It was the photo Rita Skeeter had taken, when Draco had leaned down, his chin almost touching his own shoulder, to talk to Hermione. Her hand, that he had never noticed, was tight around the sleeve of his jacket. 

He tapped the edge of the paper with his wand and watched it go up in flames. It didn’t take away the ache to scream, to hit something, but it was satisfying. 

He wasn’t sure what he expected when he stepped in to provoke Weasley – because that’s what he was doing, no matter how he tried to spin it when he got in trouble. It had been satisfying to see his face go purple the way it used to when they were kids, especially when he hadn’t said anything particularly scandalous. All it proved to him was what he had already predicted: 

Their breakup hadn’t been pretty, and it had been Weasley’s fault. 

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with that information, but he filed it away all the same. A traitorous thought at the back of his head told him that he got his new job just for this reason, so Weasley could have an aneurism and Granger could prove to him that she didn’t care. He knew she was vindictive enough to do that; that was his favorite thing about her – it was very Slytherin. 

But no – she cared too much about the Minister, about her integrity. She wouldn’t – she couldn’t. 

He collapsed onto his bed, knowing that he wouldn’t sleep, but convinced that the effort would be enough. 

***

Mid-morning had just passed, and Hermione was on her third cup of coffee. She had gone to her flat to sleep, something she promised herself would make her fresh and ready to tackle this investigation, and had instead stared at the ceiling and hated herself. 

She told herself, over and over, that admonishing Malfoy for his behavior had been justified. And it was, she was still convinced of that fact; but she hadn’t needed to push it further, she hadn’t needed to throw that word in his face. 

He hadn’t said it, or anything particularly disparaging, since the war ended. But offering her his arm, making her coffee, reassuring her that if she dozed off while they were watching St. Mungos that he wouldn’t tell…it made her wary. She was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and when it didn’t, she took the shoe and dropped it herself. 

She paused in walking to take a sip of her coffee, knowing it was just full enough and just hot enough to cause a real disaster if she wasn’t careful, and her assistant, Adelaide Campbell, held up her hand silently, catching her attention. 

“Mr. Weasley insisted on waiting in your office,” she whispered, her eyes wide and apologetic. 

“Which one?” she asked hopefully, but Adelaide’s grimace told her she wouldn’t be that lucky. She supposed she wasn’t really surprised. 

He didn’t immediately address her when she pushed the door open; he was preoccupied with a book she had left open on her desk. Hogwarts, A History, she saw with a smile. Malfoy had mentioned it the other day, and her brain had latched on and wouldn’t let go. 

“Something I can help you with?” she asked.

He glanced up at her, caught, and gently closed the book. “Did you manage to get some sleep?” he asked, his voice calm. 

“I tried,” she shrugged, and he nodded like he wasn’t really listening to the answer. “I’m waiting for MLE reports to come in –”

“We need to talk about Malfoy –”

“Of course we do,” she said with resignation, and lowered herself into her chair. “Go on, get to it.” 

“Harry and the papers both say that you chose him yourself –”

She nodded. “And I did.” 

He looked affronted, as if her choice had personally offended him, even though it had nothing to do with him. “Why?” 

“He was the best one for the job,” Hermione said crisply, taking another sip of her coffee, careful to put it down in precisely the middle of the coaster she kept beside her stack of folders, the mouth of the top pointed exactly at her. Ron watched her gently turn the cup just a fraction of an inch, his brow furrowed. 

“What about Harry?” he asked. “Or me?” 

“Harry needed to spend time with Ginny and James,” Hermione countered cautiously, already mapping where this conversation would go. Ron leaned forward in the chair he had taken, trying to maintain eye contact. 

“And me?” he pressed. 

“You were not the head of any department,” she said robotically. “You were not an option.” 

“Bullshit I wasn’t an option, ‘Mione,” he snapped. “You know that Kingsley would promote anyone you wanted; all you had to do was ask.” 

“He specified a promotion of the head of a department –”

“I know I was on the list,” he interrupted. “I heard Theo Nott say it to Malfoy in the Atrium. He saw your short list. Me, Harry, Malfoy, Smith, and Nott.” 

“Theo wasn’t supposed to know –”

“It doesn’t matter how he knew, ‘Mione, he knew!” Still, he didn’t sound particularly angry, but she could feel his tone grating on her just the same. This was where their differences were thrown into greater relief; when she couldn’t have a simple conversation, a mild disagreement, without feeling her hackles rise. It always felt like he was accusing her of something, reprimanding her for not doing exactly what he wanted. “Why didn’t you pick me?” 

“Why would I want to work with you?” she said honestly, trying to keep all anger from her voice. “After what happened?” 

“And you told Harry,” he pointed out. “Because he’s hinting around at it. You promised you wouldn’t say anything.” 

“He’s my best friend –”

“And mine.” 

“And yet!” Hermione waved her arms, indicating the entire situation. “You let him wonder about why his best friends broke up for months without saying anything.” 

“It’s not his business –”

“And it’s not my secret to bear, Ron,” she interrupted easily. “You’re lucky I kept your secret this long.” 

He stared at her for a few moments, as if trying to decipher what she meant. She let him scrutinize her face without questioning him. Finally, after a few moments, he sighed, but whether it was a sigh of exasperation or resignation she couldn’t tell, and she was sure she didn’t want to know. 

“Can we stay on subject?” he asked. 

“Says the man that deviated in the first place –”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he was suddenly on his feet, and Hermione groaned. 

“That’s not what I meant –”

“You always know exactly what you mean, ‘Mione,” he argued. “Now, I want a straight answer –”

A quiet knock, just a cursory sound, interrupted him, and Malfoy pushed the door open. Hermione could see, from the tightness around his jaw, that he was still angry with her. She tried to meet his gaze, to say she was sorry without actually saying anything at all, but he eluded her. 

“Pictures from the crime scene came in,” he said dully. “Since you’re…busy –”

“She is busy, Malfoy,” Ron snapped. “So, if you don’t mind –”

“Adelaide brought them to me,” he continued as if Ron hadn’t spoken, and Hermione could see his face flush red. “She figured we’d want to see them as soon as possible.” 

Hermione was itching to get her hands on the photographs in Malfoy’s hand, protected carefully from Ron’s view. “That’s great, do you want to meet in your office –?”

“Actually, you look like you’re kind of busy here,” Malfoy said snidely, his eyes sidling over to Ron for only a second before coming back to her. “I’ll let you finish up this obviously very important conversation.”

She could have hit him, but she felt the pressure to behave as Ron’s eyes went back to hers. How would she defend her choice to hire Malfoy if they couldn’t even get along for an entire day at a time? Ron was staring at her, waiting for her reaction, probably hoping for an angry one. Instead, she sighed, squeezing the bridge of her nose between her fingers. 

“I chose Malfoy because he was the best man for the job,” she said quietly, aware that Malfoy could probably be listening to what they said. “And he knows the players in the game.” 

“So do I –”

“And the family of the woman you’ve been –” she glossed over exactly what he’d been doing, and Ron flinched, “is directly involved, even if she herself is not. That’s not exactly a conflict of interest I want to entertain.” 

“But Malfoy’s entire family is okay?” Ron pointed out indignantly. “That’s a conflict of interest you’re okay with?” 

“His attention to detail, his work ethic, and his photographic memory are all huge assets that I couldn’t pass up,” she countered, and Ron blanched. 

“And I don’t have any of that?” She didn’t answer, and Ron pressed again. “Was I at least your second choice?” he asked. 

“I can’t reveal –”

“So it wasn’t me,” he concluded. “Who was it, then?” 

She tried to avoid his gaze, but felt the pressure to end the conversation as quickly as possible. “Theodore Nott.” 

***

It took Hermione longer than Draco expected to get to his office; he’d thought that the bait of the photos would have sent her running after him, but the sound of hushed voices from behind her office door continued after he left, and he even heard the muttered sound of his name coming from Weasley’s mouth, spat like an expletive. 

When she finally pushed open the door to his office, he was packing up the folder full of photos to put in a safe place, buttoning his cloak around his shoulders. She stood there, shifting from one foot to another in the doorway. Draco did not acknowledge her, but waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, and the silence stretched on, he sighed. 

“What, Granger?” he asked. 

“You have the photos,” she said simply. He nodded, and passed them over to her. Immediately, she sunk into the chair across from his desk and started flipping through them. He didn’t look at them with her, and the fact that he was keeping his distance seemed to put her on edge. Every few seconds, she would look up at him, her eyes large. He refused to acknowledge it. 

“This symbol looks familiar,” she mused finally, and Draco sniffed condescendingly. 

“That’s because you’ve seen variants of it before,” he said stiffly, still strictly maintaining his distance. “It’s probably Sanskrit in nature, a derivation of some kind, but if you’ve read any book in the restricted section of the Hogwarts library, you probably came across some version of it.” 

“You know what it is, then?” she asked, a wrinkle in her brow. Draco allowed himself a moment of triumph, having figured out something before the greatest witch of the age, and shrugged. 

“I don’t know exactly what it means, but I’ve seen it before, in a book at my parent’s library.” 

She was on her feet in an instant. “We have to go there,” she said. 

Draco shook his head. “No way, Granger, I’m not taking you to the Manor,” he insisted, stacking up the photos and tucking them into his cloak. 

“Why not?” 

He furrowed his brows sarcastically. “Why not? Maybe because the people that live in that house hate you? Because they still believe in blood supremacy?” 

“Malfoy, I’m not afraid of them –”

He was already moving around her. “I don’t care about your misplaced Gryffindor bravery, Granger, you’re not going.” 

“Malfoy, I can make you take me,” she insisted. 

He froze in the doorway; in his haste to get the book, he had forgotten that she could compel him to do things. He sighed, a heavy sound that rattled through his clenched jaw. “Fine, Granger, but you say nothing, understand?” 

She opened her mouth to retort, but he held up his hand. “It starts now, and it’s non-negotiable. You do not speak until we get back here with that book, understood?” He took in her glare with a solemn nod. “Good.” 

***

“Why am I not allowed to speak?” Hermione asked as she dislodged her hand from Malfoy’s arm, trying to ignore the way he jerked his arm away from her. Obviously he was still upset with her, but she hadn’t thought it would last this long. They weren’t friends; friends were the people that stayed angry with you when you insulted them. Acquaintances got over it fairly quickly. At least, that’s what she thought. 

“I swear, I will send you back to the Ministry,” he said coolly, actually stepping away from the edge of the property. “My parents have changed very little since the war ended. My father’s imprisonment did little to make him sympathetic to anyone.” 

“That doesn’t scare me –”

“I never said it did,” he pointed out, stepping onto the property again, allowing Hermione to follow after him. “It has nothing to do with you.” 

He didn’t deign to explain farther, and she was forced to follow him in silence, wondering how she should go about apologizing for what she said. Several times, she opened her mouth to speak and snapped her jaw shut, realizing that everything she thought she should say was woefully inadequate. It wasn’t that she felt terribly guilty about what she said, because on some level, she knew she would say something like that; she was glad she’d said it sooner rather than later. But she hadn’t expected him to react the way he did; she expected a snappy retort. She expected him to call her a Mudblood. She expected something far more immature than what she had gotten. 

And now, she was studying his terse profile, trying to understand why he looked so pale and wan when he was walking into his parents’ home. His childhood home. Merlin, the Weasleys didn’t even have a family home anymore, and he had the luxury of looking tortured by his return. 

The thought made her angry, but she couldn’t explain why. 

He sidled in front of her to knock on the front door, Hermione’s questioning glance blocked by his shoulders. Why would he need to knock on his own family’s door? He lived here his whole life, surely he could just…walk in? 

A house elf popped onto the front step, looking, if possible, down her nose at Malfoy. 

“I’d like to see my mother, if possible,” he said politely. “And visit the library.” 

“Guests aren’t permitted,” the house elf was trying to peer around Malfoy’s arm. He shifted slightly, blocking Hermione more. 

“Please tell my mother that my boss was forced to accompany me,” he said, a steely edge entering his voice. Hermione could see that his jaw was clenched tight, his lips pursed. He looked very much like his mother at this moment, but the tight hand around his wand was all his father. 

As the house elf looked disparagingly around Malfoy’s elbow to Hermione and popped away, Hermione clenched her hand into Malfoy’s sleeve, the same thing she’d done earlier, when she felt like she might faint as memories of the war overtook her. He glanced back at her, his eyes momentarily softening before they hardened into the same Malfoy she had known back in school. 

But this time, she saw the mask go up, she saw the curtain close. 

Before long, a stern-faced woman that Hermione remembered was opening the door, her eyes landing immediately on her son. 

“Draco, darling,” his mother was saying, her smile a trifle fake. “How nice to see you, and so soon.” 

“Of course, Mother,” Malfoy said, stepping forward. Narcissa’s eyes landed on Hermione, and the smile faded into a tight-lipped grimace. “You remember Hermione Granger?” he asked. “She is the new Advisor to the Minister, and my boss.” He said it so pointedly Hermione wondered how she ever wondered at the subtlety of pureblood politics.

She watched as Narcissa’s muscles in her neck worked with the sheer force of suppressing a full sneer. “Of course,” she said stiffly. “Your father is busy,” she said to Malfoy, who shrugged, but his hands, behind his back, tightened into fists. 

“I just came to get a book from the library,” Malfoy said, stepping forward far enough to leave Hermione behind in the doorway. He didn’t look back to make sure she followed, or that she wasn’t frozen in fear at the sight of the drawing room where she thought she was going to die. Instead, she was left take deep breaths through her nose, trying to keep the memories and the pain at bay. 

It didn’t really work. 

“Which book, my dear?” his mother was asking, Hermione could hear her distantly. “Perhaps I could help you find it faster.” 

“I can take care of it,” Malfoy was saying, turning away from her. She saw his eyes dart to her, and they shared a silent moment of panic, and suddenly they were children again. “You coming, Granger?” 

She didn’t say anything, but nodded shakily. He held out his arm for her to take, and she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, squeezing tightly. He bent his arm, giving the pressure back. They left his mother standing in the drawing room, framed by a marble archway and her white outfit. Hermione glanced over at her one more time before Malfoy pulled her out of view. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, so quietly she almost missed it; her heard was thundering so loud that she was sure she could only hear the beat. 

“What?” she asked. Malfoy jerked his head to her, his eyes holding an admonishment that made her immediately fall silent. 

“I should have insisted you stay at the Ministry,” he said, just slightly louder than before. “I didn’t – the drawing room –”

It seemed impossible for him to continue. Hermione gently extricated her arm from his and let him slide both hands into his pockets, the silence soothing them both. The hallways were as dark and uninviting as she always imagined they would be, the white walls and the dark marble floors a stark contrast that Hermione found reminded her of the man walking beside her. 

The library was the warmest room in the house; Hermione refused to believe that was because of her bias. The shelves were taller than the Hogwarts library, a stained glass window adorning the ceiling in three spots. 

“What are those?” she asked, pointing up to the stained glass, trying to decipher the different figures. 

Malfoy’s hand closed around her wrist. “Don’t look at them,” he hissed, pulling her along. “The sooner we get out of here the better.” As she opened her mouth to speak, he tutted. “No more talking, Granger. You promised.” 

She closed her mouth sharply, narrowing her eyes. He was inexplicably nervous, a furrowed crease in his forehead she hadn’t seen since their ill-fated sixth year, when he spent most of the term trying to secretly kill Dumbledore under the threat of death. 

He was barely glancing at the titles of the books, his eyes searching efficiently. She had no idea what they were looking for, so she let her eyes wander. Soon, she wished she hadn’t; all of the books on the shelves were historical books, with titles such as “Muggle Subjugation of the 1500s,” interspersed with copies of the “Sacred Twenty-Eight,” in different editions. 

“I’ve got it,” Malfoy was clutching a huge, dusty book in his hand. “Let’s go.” When she just stared at him, he reached down and grabbed her hand, yanking her down the stacks of books and into the wide corridor, Hermione trying to stumble after him. 

“Just where are you going in such a rush?” a silky voice crawled up Hermione’s spine and suddenly, Malfoy’s hand was out of hers, as if it had never been there. 

“Father,” Malfoy said curtly. “I thought you were busy.” 

“I suppose that’s why you thought you could come and go without me knowing,” Lucius’s eyes were still on Hermione. “I see you brought your…superior,” he drawled, somehow making the word sound slimy. 

“She insisted,” Malfoy said shortly. “If you don’t mind –”

“But I do mind,” Lucius said sharply, cutting off his son. “Leave the book. I don’t see why you should need to take it from its rightful place.” 

“It’s a Ministry matter,” Hermione piped up, and she immediately felt the heat of Malfoy’s gaze. Lucius turned to her, his eyes sliding over her before turning back to his son. 

“Do we need to revisit the lessons I taught you as a child?” Lucius said. His hand was in his pocket, and as soon as Hermione noticed, she felt Malfoy beside her freeze as if held by an invisible force. “It seems that not only have you forgotten how to pay your respects to your elders, but you don’t seem to know who is beneath you.” 

His stare burned even Hermione, who was outside of its wrath. “Though at this point, perhaps the Mudblood will surpass even you.” 

Hermione’s head swiveled toward Malfoy, whose head was bowed but his hands shaking. As if in slow motion, she watched him hand the book over to his father, his eyes trained on the floor, and turned to walk away, Hermione scurrying after him. 

It didn’t take long before they were back outside in the bright, cold sunshine, Draco shoving his hands into his pockets to try to hide the fact that they were shaking, and Hermione trying to find a way to communicate what she felt. 

But she wasn’t even sure what that was.


	6. The More Things Change

Malfoy kept his cool as long as it took him to reach the edge of the Manor’s grounds. Hermione could see him shift as their long, silent walk past the wards ended; his shoulders slumped, his neck curved downward. His hands, in his pockets, clenched and unclenched tightly. He opened the gate for her wordlessly, not even looking to see if she made it through them before he released them and they snapped them shut. She had to duck out under his arm and out of the way of the wrought iron. The clanging sound of the closed gate was their soundtrack for a few moments, Hermione trying not to look apprehensive, Malfoy trying to get his composure back.

“I thought I told you not to speak,” he spat, holding out his arm for her to take. She stared at his offered arm for a moment before she stepped away from him. “You promised.” She imagined this statement was supposed to sound like a hurt admonishment, but his clenched jaw made it sound more like the beginning of a storm. 

“What did you want me to do?” she asked. “Just give up that book you said we needed? Which, by the way, is exactly what you did.” 

He glared at her, his arm still extended. “Take my arm, Granger.” 

She clenched her jaw. “I think I’ll Apparate by myself, thanks.” 

“Fine,” he snapped, retracting his arm in a sharp, jerky movement. He ducked his chin low, almost touching the lapel of his cloak, and turned on his heel, the loud snap of his Apparition echoing in his wake. 

She stood there for a long few moments, trying to steady herself. As much as she would love to say that she was a war hero, and someone like Lucius Malfoy didn’t scare her anymore, she would be lying. There was something about the way he could look right through you, right down to your dirty blood, that made him a formidable character, even as a disgraced former Death Eater. 

She was on the right side of history, but that didn’t mean that he would ever see that. Therein laid his danger. 

Malfoy was bound to be in her office, ready to continue their row. With a resigned groan, Hermione gripped her wand tight in her fist and turned on her heel, stepping into the oppressive pressure. 

She landed unsteadily in the Atrium, trudging to the lifts with her head down, hoping that if he was still here, he wouldn’t see her. 

“Miss Granger,” a voice that Hermione recognized chirped up from her elbow. “Do you have any comment on the rumor that you and Draco Malfoy are getting cozy over the new civil unrest in Knockturn Alley?” 

She didn’t have to turn to know it was Pansy Parkinson, her Quick Quotes Quill perched precariously at the top of a piece of parchment. In fact, she was pretty sure she couldn’t look at the woman’s face. Did she know that her letters ruined her and Ron’s relationship? Did Ron tell her, in one of his many letters? 

“No comment,” Hermione said, staring up at the lift, trying to call it faster. 

“Come on, Granger, everyone saw that picture,” Pansy wheedled. 

“What picture?” Hermione still wouldn’t look at her; the best she got was a glimpse of a pair of deep red pumps, her manicured toes sticking out of the front. The lift clanked down, and as people filed in, she was forced to turn toward Pansy as the lift doors closed. Irritatingly, she was as beautiful as ever; her long dark hair was pitch black, long, and sleek, her makeup perfect. As she caught her looking, Pansy grinned, showing off a set of perfect white teeth that suddenly looked predatory. 

“Seriously, do you even read the paper?” Pansy asked with a sniff of derision. “Or do you get tired of seeing your face on the front page all the time? I know I do.” 

Hermione could feel some of the people at the back of the lift staring at them both; Pansy had the annoying habit of talking at a loud volume, no matter who could overhear her. She straightened her shoulders, trying frantically to think of something witty and disparaging. 

“Not all of us feel the need to search the columns for the mere mention of our names, Pansy,” she said coldly, feeling satisfied with herself. 

“Touchy, touchy, Granger,” Pansy said quietly, and the scribbling of the Quick Quotes Quill was suddenly super loud in the quiet lift. “You should be careful what you say to a reporter. Nothing is off the record, you know.” 

The lift clattered to a stop at a floor that was definitely not Hermione’s, but she shouldered her way out anyway. Pansy stayed inside, and waggled her fingers at Hermione as the lift continued upward. She stood there in front of the lift for a few moments, trying to rein in her temper, knowing that only two floors up, Malfoy was waiting to test it again. 

She took the stairs instead of the lift. 

***

Waiting for Granger certainly had its benefits, Malfoy thought, taking another deep breath that sucked out a bit more of his anger. He had the opportunity to finally take in her office without the pressure of her presence. She had three bookshelves in one tiny office, full to bursting with books that were somehow still meticulously organized. He stared at them for a while, trying to figure out what her organizational schema was, finally settling on what he would have done: alphabetically, by subject and then author. 

She had pictures on her desk, of course she would. There was one of her with Potter and Weasley, just graduated from Hogwarts. They had gone back in the summer to do an accelerated seventh year so they could have their diplomas. The sun was low in the sky, and they looked happy. 

It made him sick. 

He didn’t have photos like this one. He didn’t have happy memories of school like they did. And he had hoped, naively, he knew that now, that while the Golden Trio would always fondly look back at their years in school as the best times of their lives, he would have the present. But he didn’t, did he? 

No, they owned this world too. 

Finally, as he was lowering himself to the chair across from her desk, she shoved open the door with far more force than necessary. 

“Malfoy,” she panted. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. She glared at him, and he could tell she was already angry, so he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he waved her off, and pulled a little square out of his pocket. “Here.” Gently, with his wand, he tapped the edge and watched as the book grew to its normal size. 

“You…you have the book,” she said in awe, holding out her hand for it. 

“I shrunk it and took another one,” he explained. “I knew we wouldn’t get out of there without my father taking it back.” 

The mention of Lucius put a cloud over her face. She furrowed her brow, her eyes on the book, but he could tell she wasn’t reading it. Finally, she spoke, her fingers still gently tracing the soft leather cover. 

“Do they treat you like that all the time?” she asked softly. “Your parents?” 

She pulled the book more completely into her grasp as she felt him go still. She didn’t say anything for a long time, hoping he’d speak, but the longer he was quiet, the more she had to accept that he wasn’t going to give her anything. Wasn’t that just like them both, she thought ruefully. She would ask a probing question that had no place being asked, and he would revert back to the stony Malfoy she had always known. 

How predictable. 

“I am certainly not comfortable discussing things like that with my boss,” he finally said, quietly, turning away from her to reclaim his seat. 

“Perhaps one day we’ll be friends,” she shrugged. 

He didn’t say anything, but a spasm crossed his face that Hermione thought looked like it could be the ghost of a smile. 

***

There was a letter waiting for him on his desk next to his copy of the Daily Prophet. Ron picked up the paper, unfolding it carefully, scanning the headlines for a fraction of a moment before his gaze landed on Hermione and Malfoy at the Creevy scene, Hermione’s hand clenched tightly into Malfoy’s jacket. 

He furrowed his brows at it; what was he supposed to think, with pictures like this, articles like this? Just because he and Hermione broke up didn’t mean that he didn’t still care about her – he did. He still held out hope that one day they would give their relationship another shot; after all, they were best friends. This was the kind of relationship that stood the test of time, even if they deviated from the path a little bit. 

The article was all about supposed new beginnings and the quiet hint that Malfoy had always been on the good side, even if that made him wishy-washy. Ron didn’t have to look at the byline to know who wrote it. 

His eyes strayed to the letter and he finally put the paper down to open the letter. 

My dear, 

I went to visit old classmates today, hoping that something had changed in the last few years. But they were as obstinate as ever, as stubborn as they’ve ever been. We’re all wary, tiptoeing around each other, because what if one of us still harbors the same feelings as before the war? I know that I don’t, but how do I know that Blaise, and Theo, and Daphne and Astoria have changed? How do I know that they don’t still hate Muggleborns? 

I don’t know, and every day I get pulled farther away from who I thought I was. Losing my father in the war was the worst thing I could have ever been forced to endure. You know what I mean, you understand. 

I suppose that’s why I like writing to you so much; our difficulties were so different but so much the same. But I’m getting off topic – Blaise and Theo are apparently not speaking, and for a moment, I thought I was back at Hogwarts. It was a nice feeling, if I can admit that to this letter only, knowing that somehow they were fighting over an inconsequential thing. 

But what if they’re not? What if it’s something more serious? Do I have to live in this paranoid nightmare forever, pretending I know what I’m doing? You’re the only one I can be honest with. 

Yours,   
Pansy. 

Carefully, he folded up the letter and put it in his pocket, content to respond to her that evening. He leaned against his desk, the letter’s miniscule weight growing exponentially in his pocket the more he looked at the newspaper and the photo of Hermione and Malfoy. 

What if Pansy was right? What if those school friends that she so desperately wished to reconnect with hadn’t changed a jot in several years? And Hermione, trusting, sweet Hermione, was going to let a Death Eater work alongside her. Perhaps she and Pansy weren’t so different after all. 

He shoved the newspaper into the same pocket that housed the letter and pushed open the door to his office. As much as he knew this conversation would turn into a row, he would much rather have the row than have Hermione put in danger because she was trying to be trusting and progressive. Sometimes, being cautious and strategic outweighed a sheer overwhelming amount of intelligence, right? 

He nodded to himself. Right. 

The door to her office was closed when he arrived on her floor; that in itself was unusual. He took a moment to survey the hallway; the door to Malfoy’s office was open, and unoccupied. His assistant was flipping through parchment, completely ignoring him, as she usually did when he came by. He wondered if she ignored him based on Malfoy’s orders. He didn’t want to ask. 

Hermione’s assistant was nowhere to be seen, but her door was closed tightly, and Ron could just barely hear hushed voices coming out of it; upon closer inspection, Ron heard the distinct timbre of Malfoy’s voice. Tempering his urge to shove the door open, he knocked firmly. 

Immediately, the voices ceased, and he could hear the rustling of papers. “It’s just me, ‘Mione,” he called out. 

It was Malfoy that wrenched the door open, his face tight and strained. “What do you want, Weasley? We’re busy.” 

“Last time I checked, this was Hermione’s office, not yours, Malfoy,” he sneered, already feeling his temper rapidly slipping out of his control. “‘Mione, I need to talk to you.” 

Hermione appeared at Malfoy’s elbow, her face soft. “It’s okay, Malfoy, just give us a second.” 

“I’ll be right out here,” he said clearly, glaring at Ron. “And make it quick, Weasley, some of us actually like to do our jobs during usual work hours.” 

“Ronald,” Hermione stepped aside, her eyes staying on Malfoy. “Come in.” 

She closed the door gently behind him but did not cast a Silencing Charm. She stared at him over her desk. “What is this about?” she asked. “Because I am not giving you my notes on the candidates for Malfoy’s position.” 

“That’s not -” he stopped, and started again. “How….how close are you and Malfoy?” 

She furrowed her brows. “What?” 

“You heard me,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. If he got angry, so would she, and there would be no coming back from that. “Are you two...friends? More than that?” 

“Why would you ask me that?” she asked. 

He passed the newspaper over her desk to her. “I know better than to believe all of the gossip that paper spits out. Which is why I’m here, asking you to confirm or deny.” 

“So you don’t believe the gossip, but you believe your girlfriend enough to come to my office, interrupt my work day, and ask me to confirm or deny some stupid article that took two seconds out of context?” she asked sharply. “Is Pansy trying to get you to do her dirty work now, since she can’t get any information out of me when she badgers me in the lift?”

“What?” Ron gaped at her. “This - this has nothing to do with Pansy -” 

“Doesn’t it always?” she asked. “Then why is this underneath the paper?” she held up the envelope that had, until just recently, been pressed against the lining of his cloak. 

“That - I didn’t mean -” he tried to snatch it back, but she held it out of his reach. 

“I have no interest in reading this,” she sneered, her eyes hardly landing on it before they came back to him. “But if you are at liberty to write love letters to a former-Slytherin, I don’t see why you need to be worried if I’m doing the same.” 

“Hermione, he was a Death Eater -”

“The war is over -” 

“Is it?” he asked, leaning over the desk. “Can you really say the war is completely over? Even as Colin fights for his life in St. Mungos because one of Malfoy’s kin -”

“And Pansy’s, don’t forget,” Hermione snarled. “Her family was just as involved.” 

“Pansy’s father is dead,” Ron snapped. “And her mother is ill. Unless Pansy herself is involved, she is blameless in this. Can you really say the same about Malfoy? About his family?” 

She didn’t say anything for a long time, her eyes still on the letter in her hand. After Ron registered his triumph, she threw the letter back at him, a smirk landing on her face as he flinched away from the parchment. 

“Let me do my job,” she said softly, firmly. “And let Malfoy do his.” 

“I’m trying to protect you -” 

“You’re not my boyfriend anymore,” she interrupted. “I can take care of myself.” 

He considered telling her that one day, he hoped to be her boyfriend again. He even opened his mouth, if only to let her know why he was here, so she wouldn’t be so angry. But a quiet knock on the door stopped him. Malfoy was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed, a smirk on his face. 

“If you’re finished,” he said pointedly, stepping past him toward Hermione.


End file.
